Talking To The Dead

 I’m not sure what it was that made me feel the need to visit a cemetery, but I felt the need.  G suggested going to the munch but the cemetery was calling me.  One of the oldest cemeteries in Portland, to be specific.  So I grabbed my camera, hopped in my car, and fought traffic to get there.

The gate was open, but I alway feel weird driving into this old cemetery.  I parked outside of the gates and walked into the cemetery on the road.  I entered it, and the calm swept over me.  The quiet.  The calm.  The quiet.  Did I say that already? I did. I stood there for a moment – about 10 steps beyond the gate, closed my eyes, and breathed as I silently thanks anyone around me for letting me be there.

That may sound weird but I can’t help it.  A cemetery is a place for quiet, a place for reflection, a place that always take me back to the play “Our Town” by Thornton Wilder. For those who don’t know, “Our Town” has a part where someone dies – and the scene is a cemetery.  Those who died sit in chairs on top of their graves.  Other things happen in the play but the dead try to interact with the living.  Yeah, that’s what my head sees and my gut feels.

Today a couple of witches had a ritual set up under an elm tree in the middle of the cemetery.  I almost approached and asked if I could take photos.  But I did not wanted to respect what they were doing.

As I wandered through and took photos, a group of cyclists came though.  One of them was playing Pink Floyd.  Tears misted my eyes because, well, today seems to be the day where the universe wants me to think about SB. Out of space on my iPhone? Go through the photos and see all the photos from SB and my vacation at Pacific City.  Wake up from a nap?  Realize the reason you are annoyed is because you ended it mid-conversation with SB.  Go through email? See the reminder about an upcoming concert by a band that SB and I have seen many times.  Yeah – it’s been one of those days.

Fuck, even going to take photos – there were alcohol bottles surrounding the parameter.  PBR cans.  IPA bottles. And Jameson Whiskey Bottles. I am not kidding.

So, I took photos. I put down my sunglasses and let my eyes leak.  And I talked to the dead. Aloud.


I knew I wasn’t in the cemetery that those I was talking to have been laid to rest. I just felt they were walking with me – so I spoke. Like a prayer of sorts. It felt like the right thing to do. So I did. I don’t know if it mattered.  What was funny was after all of it, I went to the munch; and a friend pulled me into a hug that wouldn’t end.  He held me as he told me about his day. I was just happy not to cry.

Today is apparently a day of tears.

Fuck.

I guess I needed to talk to the dead. I hope they listened. I feel they listened.

It was what I needed.

What do you think?

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