This evening, trying to distract myself from the ever-worsening feelings of gloom that have been clouding my thoughts for weeks now, I climbed over a cemetery fence after hours and had a walk. It’s a Catholic cemetery a few blocks from Michael’s apartment. It was still light out. I went around and looked at the graves. I like finding interesting names and imagining the people’s lives. I found a few items of interest: a German couple named Zylpha and Hildebert (feel sorry for both of them), and another stone where the birth year was listed as 1891 and the death year was blank. Apparently it’s been set up in advance for the oldest person in the world. Either that or they just forgot to carve in the death year, but I prefer the first possibility.
I was a habitué of the local cemetery as a child, from age eight or so up into my teens. This probably goes a long way towards explaining why the kids at school thought I was creepy and I had no friends. I cleaned the weeds off the neglected graves, set back into place the really old stones that had fallen over, etc. My fascination with cemeteries may go back to my brother’s death in a car accident when I was two and a half, 23 years ago last month. One of my earliest memories of visiting his grave shortly after his death — the overturned soil was still fresh — and Dad trying to explain to me what had happened to him. He was in a car accident and they kept him on life support for a few days, but he was killed more or less instantly. Word of advice: don’t try to explain the concept of brain death to a two-year-old. Even many adults don’t get it, never mind a toddler who isn’t quite sure even what regular death is.
I might have stayed at the cemetery a long time, but mosquitoes chased me out after 45 minutes or so. Then I went to McDonald’s and ordered a large meal. I couldn’t eat more than a few bites of it, so I took it home and gave it to some friend’s of Michael’s who were over. Thanks to my depression they got a hamburger, a cinnamon melt and fries.