The Opposite of Tragic

A hillside the color of autumn reflects gold when the sun sets.

And a wind stirs just strong enough to chill the air.

And a little girl sits crumpled in the dying grass.

And I can tell she is glad no one is there to ask, What’s wrong?

And I know because I know her answer would be, Nothing, it’s just too beautiful.

And I know because this little girl is me.

I never feel more alive than when I’m in a cemetery.

I feel the urge to plop myself down and prop my back against the aging gravestones

And then I remember society would frown upon my disrespect.

I wonder at the couple holding hands as they wander through this graveyard-paradise.

What loved one of theirs resides here?

Or perhaps they are like me . . . just here to find peace.

‘Stop it! Don’t walk near the graves! It’s disrespectful!’ cry a few teenagers.

A squirrel perches on one of the stones.

He doesn’t know that he too is breaking the cemetery code.

I think it’s sad the way we tiptoe through graveyards,

Pretending death does not exist.

Like we want to ignore the inevitability of returning to the dirt we came from.

I hope you are not afraid of dying

I hope you will stop by my grave and try to decipher my hopes and dreams.

I hope you use my gravestone as a backrest.

I hope you can benefit from my death.

The squirrel studies me from the decaying gravestone. There lie the Leslies.

Who were they? . . . well, Mrs. Leslie was seven years older than Mr. Leslie.

Both were born in the middle of the 19^th century and died during the Great Depression.

But who were they?

Were they bewildered by the movies? Were they disgusted by the automobiles?

Were they pioneers, homesteaders, shopkeepers?

Were they parents, siblings, bosses?

Were they happy?

Behind me is a Latin American family. They chat together as the visit a decorative grave I had noticed earlier.

I noticed because it made me cry.

Ten sorry varieties of flowers, some dying, some plastic, were strewn over this grave.

Colorful effigies of saints were strewn over this grave.

Months of care, were strewn over this grave.

The deceased boy with the much-loved grave was young—only a teenager.

I cannot imagine the family’s pain.

But I feel it anyway.

Their pain is in every tear I have shed over an essay or a test.

Their pain is in my unhappiness over arguments with my parents.

Their pain is in my aunt’s death from breast cancer.

Their pain is even in my happiest moments: in every kiss I’ve ever shared, in every joy I’ve felt.

I have as much right to be in this cemetery as the man on the bike.

Or the family visiting their loved one,

Or the children running screaming among the stones.

We all have our own rights to humanity.