grave, and say, “Number three. I was always Kay-bear, never Kay.”
A single tear falls. God, why does it still hurt so much?
The dark veil of clouds that have been threatening to let loose since the conclusion of Mass finally do so, and a fine mist of raindrops begins to accumulate on the granite marker before me. I pull the cotton candy pink sleeve of the cardigan I’m wearing down over my hand and blot away the moisture from a name carved in stone—Sarah Stanton.
“Sorry, sweetie,” I say. And I am sorry, so very, very sorry.
I should go—before the rain picks up—but I just can’t seem to move.
Visiting this grave week after week, recalling and reciting three things about my little sister—lingering when I should leave—these are all parts of my Sunday ritual. One I’ve done for almost four years now. And today is no different.
I must never forget the things I relay to my baby girl each week, which is why later I’ll write in a journal the things I’ve just said: Sarah loved the color purple, couldn’t sleep without Peetie, and never called me Kay.
Using short phrases such as these, I’ve filled four notebooks in four years’ time. Last week I bought a fifth. The new one has a shiny purple cover and a glitter heart etched in the center. Purple, Sarah’s favorite color. Never forget, right?
I hate how time has a way of blurring the memories, easing the guilt. I deserve to suffer. My grief anchors me to my guilt. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Probably both, a never-ending circle. In any case, I rarely miss a Sunday visit to this little cemetery behind Holy Trinity Church.
And the routine—like a song—remains the same…
Following Mass, I exit through propped-open doors—heavy oak and painted red. A few steps down and I say good-bye to Missy Metzger and her mom, but not before being roped into promising to help out with whatever church fundraiser is coming up. Missy is the head of the bake committee, and her mom runs just about everything else. Seems like there’s always talk of cakes and cookies, and changes to be made on the church activities calendar. This week it’s sugar and spice and a cancelled picnic. I nod and smile, then slip away to the right and out of sight.
I catch my breath as I meander along the gentle curve of a stone pathway that leads to the back of the church. The cemetery is the first thing you come to. The rectory is back here too, but way off to the right. There’s a low gate made of iron marking the entrance to the cemetery. It’s deeply embedded in the ground, standing forever crooked and ajar. I always stop here and send up a silent (and selfish) prayer to be left alone, although there’s never any need. No one ever bothers me back here.
Most of the parishioners have witnessed enough of my routine at one time or another to know how much it means to me. Consequently, they tend to give me lots of space. I guess they feel bad. Yet another benefit reaped from when others feel sorrow for you.
The irony is that I don’t deserve their compassion, not an ounce of their sympathy. What they believe about me isn’t true. But only God and two other people (besides me) know the real reason why my little sister was left alone that night, why she ended up in a granite-marked grave behind a crooked and perpetually ajar iron gate.
These are usually my thoughts as I stand at the graveyard entrance. They certainly were today, as I hemmed and hawed and chewed at my lip. But finally—with a heart laden with guilt—I walked down the well-worn path, snaked past the graves, turned left where Jonas O’Neill has been resting in (hopefully) eternal piece for close to a century, and then continued to the very back.
I slowed, as I always do, when I reached the section where the wind chimes, the stuffed bears, and a rabbit that looks just like Peetie all reside. Gifts laid before the feet of children who will never know what their loved ones have brought them. These children
A single tear falls. God, why does it still hurt so much?
The dark veil of clouds that have been threatening to let loose since the conclusion of Mass finally do so, and a fine mist of raindrops begins to accumulate on the granite marker before me. I pull the cotton candy pink sleeve of the cardigan I’m wearing down over my hand and blot away the moisture from a name carved in stone—Sarah Stanton.
“Sorry, sweetie,” I say. And I am sorry, so very, very sorry.
I should go—before the rain picks up—but I just can’t seem to move.
Visiting this grave week after week, recalling and reciting three things about my little sister—lingering when I should leave—these are all parts of my Sunday ritual. One I’ve done for almost four years now. And today is no different.
I must never forget the things I relay to my baby girl each week, which is why later I’ll write in a journal the things I’ve just said: Sarah loved the color purple, couldn’t sleep without Peetie, and never called me Kay.
Using short phrases such as these, I’ve filled four notebooks in four years’ time. Last week I bought a fifth. The new one has a shiny purple cover and a glitter heart etched in the center. Purple, Sarah’s favorite color. Never forget, right?
I hate how time has a way of blurring the memories, easing the guilt. I deserve to suffer. My grief anchors me to my guilt. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Probably both, a never-ending circle. In any case, I rarely miss a Sunday visit to this little cemetery behind Holy Trinity Church.
And the routine—like a song—remains the same…
Following Mass, I exit through propped-open doors—heavy oak and painted red. A few steps down and I say good-bye to Missy Metzger and her mom, but not before being roped into promising to help out with whatever church fundraiser is coming up. Missy is the head of the bake committee, and her mom runs just about everything else. Seems like there’s always talk of cakes and cookies, and changes to be made on the church activities calendar. This week it’s sugar and spice and a cancelled picnic. I nod and smile, then slip away to the right and out of sight.
I catch my breath as I meander along the gentle curve of a stone pathway that leads to the back of the church. The cemetery is the first thing you come to. The rectory is back here too, but way off to the right. There’s a low gate made of iron marking the entrance to the cemetery. It’s deeply embedded in the ground, standing forever crooked and ajar. I always stop here and send up a silent (and selfish) prayer to be left alone, although there’s never any need. No one ever bothers me back here.
Most of the parishioners have witnessed enough of my routine at one time or another to know how much it means to me. Consequently, they tend to give me lots of space. I guess they feel bad. Yet another benefit reaped from when others feel sorrow for you.
The irony is that I don’t deserve their compassion, not an ounce of their sympathy. What they believe about me isn’t true. But only God and two other people (besides me) know the real reason why my little sister was left alone that night, why she ended up in a granite-marked grave behind a crooked and perpetually ajar iron gate.
These are usually my thoughts as I stand at the graveyard entrance. They certainly were today, as I hemmed and hawed and chewed at my lip. But finally—with a heart laden with guilt—I walked down the well-worn path, snaked past the graves, turned left where Jonas O’Neill has been resting in (hopefully) eternal piece for close to a century, and then continued to the very back.
I slowed, as I always do, when I reached the section where the wind chimes, the stuffed bears, and a rabbit that looks just like Peetie all reside. Gifts laid before the feet of children who will never know what their loved ones have brought them. These children
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