The Dead in My Yard
It’s about ten thirty on a Tuesday morning in July and I am standing over the open grave of a man I’ve never met. I look around and see his widow, his kids, his grandkids. I admire the mahogany casket that he will remain in forever, that is, until his body decomposes. I know that I shouldn’t be thinking things like that at a funeral, but I have nothing else to think about. I do not know him. I don’t know his name, how he died. I don’t even know if those are his kids. I have no idea what he looks like. The only thing I really know is that his name is, or was, rather, Harold and he passed peacefully in his sleep. He now lives with the Lord.
I am already planning an escape plan I can enact as soon as the funeral ends. I don’t know the family and I don’t want anyone talking to me to see how I knew Harold. This must take me quite some time, because I lose track of how long I’ve been standing three people back to the left of the casket and I hear the final “Amen” and see a few people shuffle, the casket sink into the ground. A few more words from the priest and it’s over. I turn around and immediately start to walk. My heels have sunk a bit into the ground; it rained yesterday. Not paying attention, I walk face-first into the back of a small white haired woman. Apologizing immediately and avoiding eye contact, I already know that it’s too late. I have smashed directly into poor Harold’s widow.
“I’m so sorry,” I say while I keep my gaze fixed on my mud-encrusted heels. They cost me forty-five dollars on sale. They make my feet hurt like it’s going out of style. I hate wearing them but they’re so pretty.
“Oh, that’s fine, dear. Thank you for coming,” his widow says to me. I feel a significant amount of blood rush to my face. I am trying not to show her that I am flushed. There is only a mild bit of embarrassment associated with attending the burial of someone you’ve never even met before. I mutter a quiet “You’re welcome. I’m so sorry for your loss” and attempt to walk away, but I feel her hand on my upper arm in a sign of thanks and grieving. I stop walking and turn toward her. Here we go.
“Harry had a very long life. He really did live it to the fullest, even though sometimes he shouldn’t have. He wouldn’t want us to be sorry that he’s gone, honey,” she says to me. I nod in agreement. “How did you know Harry? Were you one of his students?”
My eyes drop and I shake my head. I know nothing about Harry and if I had lied, my story would have been exposed of a fraud within seconds. Sure, I could have been one of his students, but what did he teach? Was he a high school teacher? A professor? Which college? I decide to just tell her the truth and plan on leaving as quickly as I can afterward.
“No. I didn’t know your husband. I’m sorry,” I say softly to her. Out of nervousness, I am now jamming my heel into the soft ground and focusing on how much it sticks as I try to pull it out. I shouldn’t have come.
His widow gives me a confused look and just says “Oh?” My face is beet red now. Just gotta tell her the truth.
“No. I live in the house next to the cemetery,” I say, pointing to the ranch house a little ways from the edge of the cemetery that my mother refers to as “sweet.” Some developer has built houses on every side of the cemetery. I feel kind of ashamed now, living next to it for my entire life and only now realizing just what it means to people.
“I saw the funeral procession passing by and turn into this cemetery. I felt like I should pay my respects,” I say to her. I manage to look at her face after I say this. She is at least four inches shorter than me, her hair is white and curly. She’s rail thin. She looks like every old lady I’ve ever seen. Her face seems calm and not at all disturbed by the fact that I have just told her that I crashed her husband’s funeral.
“You live over there?” she asks, pointing to my house. “It’s a very sweet house, dear.” I have to laugh at her statement. It strikes me as odd and funny that the woman whose husband’s funeral I have just barged in on shares the same sentiment as my mother. “Thanks,” I say. What else could I do?
“Why did you feel like you should pay respects to someone you don’t know? How old are you, hon? You can’t be more than twenty. What is someone so young doing dealing with funerals of others? I don’t mean to sound rude, of course.” I am mortified.
“I’ve lived here my whole life,” I start, “and I’ve never been to a single funeral. All of my grandparents are still alive. None of my close relatives have passed. When I was little, I would come out to the cemetery with my friends and we’d look over the gravestones and make up stories based on the engravings. I feel like I owe it to the people buried here.”
“That’s very sweet of you, but you don’t owe them anything. You pay to live next to the cemetery as much as we pay to bury our families here,” she tells me with her hand still on my arm. I feel my heart sinking and I feel the need to launch into an explanation.
“I’m twenty,” I tell her, “and I am in my third year at the University. I’m a math major with no idea about what I want to do with my life. I stick with it because I don’t know what else to do. I’m too far in to change my major, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know what to change to. I live with my parents and I don’t have a summer job because I used the argument that I should enjoy the times I have off while I still can before I have to go to grad school or find a job. My father pays me fifty dollars a week to do some of his chores around the house. I have my own car that my parents bought me when I graduated high school. They’re taking parent loans so I won’t have student loans. They both work full time. My brother is still in high school. I normally wake up around noon or one every day, eat food I haven’t paid for, watch a TV I don’t pay for, and go out shopping or with my friends using gas I bought with money I really didn’t work for. I happened to be up this morning because I had to give my father a ride to work. His car is broken down and I’m too selfish to let him borrow mine.” I focus on jamming my heel into the ground again and realize how pathetic I seem. How much of a typical college kid I am.
“Oh, well, you are very lucky, then. Harry was a math teacher back in Chicago. You probably would have loved him. And he would have appreciated that you came to his funeral. You may not think so, but that takes a lot more integrity than you realize you have. I can’t tell you what to do about your job or your major or anything, but I will say that I have been very touched by the things you’ve said to me and the way you came to Harry’s funeral just because you felt like you should. I hope it makes you feel better, too.” She opens her arms and hugs me. I feel ashamed and lucky and horrifically sad and wonderful all at the same time. Even though she isn’t, I start to cry. She rubs my back a little and says to me “Honey, thank you for coming. Thank you.”
She holds me for a few seconds longer and pulls away. I am crying and she is smiling. She grabs my hand and squeezes it and tells me that she has other mourners she needs to speak with and thank and I tell her I understand. I thank her for allowing me to be a part of her husband’s final respects. I am somewhat embarrassed that I opened up to a complete stranger at the funeral of someone I don’t know, his widow, nonetheless. Tears are still sliding down my face and as she lets go of my hand starts to walk away, and she is choked up when she turns and says “Even at his funeral, Harry managed to teach. Once a teacher, always a teacher.” She walks away.
I avoid talking to any of the other mourners and my heels make slurping sounds as I walk through a small patch of muddy ground on my way back to my house. When I get home, I will drop my car off at my father’s workplace and call a friend to meet me there. I still have no idea about what I want to do with my life, but as I think it over on my way home, I am careful not to step on the spots where others have been laid to rest.
