September to November 2005, New Jersey

By Alison Ashley Formento

Lately we’ve spent a lot of time visiting cemeteries. It’s the latest fad for my 8-year-old. Alex still loves riding his bike and playing basketball, but he’s fascinated by every aspect of cemeteries: fresh and not-so-fresh flowers, elaborate monuments, and especially reading tombstones. It’s an adventure in history as my son imagines those lives already lived. I admit it makes me feel a little edgy, being reminded of my own mortality.

Cemetery hopping is now part of our weekly schedule. Mondays we stop by a graveyard near Alex’s piano lesson. After swimming on Thursdays, we either visit the “new” cemetery or the “old” one, depending on Alex’s mood. The older place hugs the highway, and many headstones lay askew, waiting for someone like Alex, eager to set them upright.

I tell him not to bother the fallen granite and marble pieces, that he might get hurt and we shouldn’t be touching them anyway. The idea of a grave being personal property is a bit beyond Alex’s understanding. If my skinny son had the strength, he’d gladly be the designated headstone picker-upper for cemeteries throughout the world.

Most often, we wander the cemetery across the street from Alex’s school. It’s an old graveyard, but well kept, being near our town hall. After a day of sitting in class Alex races around the monuments, weaving between headstones stopping to read his favorites. Many date back to the 18th century and are barely legible.

Alex examines the stones and enjoys tracing the faded letters with his fingers. The few he can decipher inspire tales that are repeated to friends and family, not to mention folks at the pizza parlor, grocery store, and gas station. Wherever there are people with ears, Alex will talk tombstones.

“Did you know that this man at the cemetery lived to be 101?” Without taking a breath, he continues: “There’s a little stone for a dog next to a lady. I bet she was his owner. And a whole family all next to each other, too. You should see it, they must have 20 gravestones!”

These remarks bring uneasy smiles from those who listen and curiosity at Alex’s odd interest. I brush off strange looks with, “It’s just a phase.”

Maybe — but when Alex mentions which kind of headstone he thinks I should have, my heart beats a little faster, a lurch of thought toward my own end. I explain that I hope to live to the age of a hundred so I can be a great-grandmother to his children’s children.

“Most people don’t get that old, mom, so you need a big headstone here so I can visit.”

I swallow down a knot of unease, not wanting to think about my final resting place.

“Alex, some people don’t get buried after they die, but give their bodies to a hospital so they can help sick people.”

Tears fill my son’s eyes as he pleads his case. “But you need flowers and your name on a headstone, mom. I want a place to bring you stuff, like jack-o-lanterns and a Frisbee.”

His heartfelt request reminds me of one headstone we always stop to visit. A young man, just 19 years old, is buried there and his grave is a collage of colorful mementos. It is strewn with plastic toy windmills, two small artificial Christmas trees, loads of silk flowers, a sports jersey, and a tarnished baseball trophy.

This display saddened me the first time I saw it, realizing this person was deeply loved and missed. For Alex, it’s a visual thrill – the abundance of decoration. In a sea of matte gray slabs, this grave demands notice.

“This is way cool. Everyone will visit if your grave looks like this.”

Alex is right. We are drawn here. While I wonder why this man died so young, my son sees a happy spot, where family and friends visit, bringing loving gifts and good memories.

Whether we shoot baskets or stroll through a thousand cemeteries it is time together, fleeting though it may be. He loves thinking about the future and I want to hold on to now.

One thing is certain; my son is way cool and whatever happens after my span on earth, I’m sure he’ll find his own unique way of remembering me. If it’s a Frisbee on my headstone, that’s just fine.

Alison Ashley Formento is a freelance writer currently finishing a children’s novel.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, December 14th, 2006 | Email This Post

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