Three generations. That is how long before we are wiped from the face of Earth. I am not talking about an impending apocalypse or collateral damage or even a mass extinction event. Bonds form and break like how tides flood and ebb. We—or, you, and I, as separate entities—will be forgotten before long.
He is a freak. He must have lost his parents, poor thing. Stay away from him, he is dirty. Do you think he is possessed? Maybe he works the graveyard shift.
Fantastic pun. Hardy-ha-ha. What I do possess is a shaven, kempt face. An Armani Collezioni white textured cotton shirt that is crisply pressed, buttoned down and tucked into my black Maison Margiela classic tailored twill trousers. I use aftershave, but I leave the cologne out. If dirty has a friend, it has to be that dude with shaggy hair, all held in place by a woman’s fashionista headband. Who is he to keep the girls away from me? A prostitution ringmaster?
There are no fallen and decaying leaves or branches here. No uprooted trees crippling and crumbling the ceramic or marbled steps or structures. No moss or lichen growing on any one of the hundreds tombstones. The dewy green shrubs maintain well-sculpted, the juniper trees are trimmed and pruned (definitely neater than that dude), and the evergreen lawn that safeguards the souls are so freshly and closely mown, it looks an endless synthetic carpet. Raised headstones are not weather-worn and the epitaphs engraved glistens at their bevelled corners.
I have these phases in my life that define life for me; it makes life what it is as it is, when it is. Though I loathe crowds, I visit burial grounds to not seek refuge from white noise; I seek harmony. I breathe, to soak and bathe myself in the smell of petrichor and fresh flowers. I feel alive/a cemetery is a place where people come and go—double entendres.
The chaos in life—separation, denial, acceptance, loss, grieve, anger, annoyance, tolerance—all congregate at this very place. The flowery scents in the air though light and soothing, carry an air of heaviness.
I avoid tomb-sweeping day for obvious reasons. The other days that I am here, I observe the occasional visitors. They have come to clean the tombs of their—I presume—loved ones. Those who visit frequently do a quick wipe-down of the marble headstones with damp cloths. The foreign-looking ones either leave flowers as a mark of respect (but they leave soon after) or equip themselves with a small pail of water, some non-ionic soap, a wooden scraper and a brush.
The latter group of strangers first soak the marbled headstone with water—a rite that I have seen performed many times over the course of a year. Water helps saturate any algae or moss growth to facilitate their removal through scraping. The strangers then submerge their brushes into a concoction of soap and water in their pails and bristle the remaining debris away. Finally, they flush the headstone clean with new water.
Many would make beeline for the graves that they are visiting while averting their gaze away from the little portraits embossed within oval glasses of many others. It feels almost taboo to look at graves of the deceased. If you do look though, you will observe that there is a correlation between the condition of the graves and their guests. The devil is in the details:
Frequent visitors usually tend to newly-erected tombstones.
The strangers who clean thoroughly but sporadically are a generation down. They probably could not care less, until an intense flashback or jolt of memory unnerve them.
Those who come merely to leave flowers have done more than enough. They are sometimes accompanied by their children, maybe even with their grandchildren.
My friends think that I am a snub. An egocentric-regressed loner from an affluent family. Well then, I shall not think of them as friends anymore. Just like that.
I am 22. My wardrobe and demeanour reflect my toiling climb up the corporate ladder. I have witnessed one too many theatrics to bother with frivolous trivialities–the personal attacks, name-calling and cyber bullying. I really could not care less.
Mom. Dad. I want to leave my mark before I die. I do not want an object of remembrance six feet above where I am buried. I want a mark so perennial that it can even withstand the test of time. Three generations. That is how long before we are wiped from the face of Earth.
Until then, both of you shall forevermore be in my memory.
Further Reading
