I gaze upon the vastness of rock, cut with clean corners in orderly rows, dotting the fields. Bright fake flowers blow in the cool wind, and a quietness has descended upon the field. This quietness has grabbed onto the rushing river of my thoughts and like a strict mother blows a “shhhhhh” over these waters, silencing them. A few crooked and bent trees stretch across the dull sky. Besides that, the empty flatness of the rows and rows of stone are all that grab the attention of my eyes. With careful steps, my shoes smother weed-filled grass, I process down these rows and begin to read a name, two dates, and a sentence. My steps are slow and distant. I feel like trying to listen to a murmured conversation from another room, but they are steady and purposeful. I pass a cross-shaped stone and read a name, two dates, and a sentence that marks the stone in clear bold print. I continue, passing a half-sunk marble with moss. I read a name, two dates, and a sentence. I pass a slanted glossy stone and read a name, two dates, and a sentence. Row after row I weave back and forth and continue to read a name, two dates, and a sentence. The field is empty and I imagine the birds that were disturbed by my visit, observing me from a distance. I come upon another ordinary stone, light gray and polished. The edges are still sharply pointed and overturned fresh earth indicates whoever is here is a new resident. The realization descends upon me that I have arrived last name on the row which lies close to the tree line of the woods blocked only by an old iron gate, dripping with rust. I prepare myself to read the final name, two dates, and sentences. This time the name is “John Andrews”.
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Perhaps it’s because he was the newest addition or perhaps because I had reached the end of my walk, but I could feel the static-like silence lift like dissipating morning fog from my mind as I finished reading his name. My hushed mind reawakens as the river of thoughts churns again. I try to deduce who exactly this John Andrews was. My eyes reach out and try to grasp any meaning I can pull from the indents in the rock, but, alas, I find nothing. Perhaps I can try the date and the time period, but they fail to provide anything meaningful. My eyes land on the sentence placed under the two dates and I desperately grab onto the description reading
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“Beloved Father and Husband”
~
I gain these tidbits and nothing more. My search has concluded with me knowing John Andrew’s name, John Andrew’s date of birth, John Andrew’s date of death, and that John Andrew’s was a beloved father and husband. But beloved by who? Husband of who? How did he die? What was he like? Did he laugh? Did he cry? All the days he lived, all the people he hated, the job he had, the arguments he got into, the people he loved, who he is, are gone. How, if at all, did he grapple with knowing his life was to be reduced to a sentence on a stone? That the vessel of his thoughts, feelings, and experiences was to be buried beneath 6 feet of dirt, decaying in a wooden box, or burned to ash and the only things I know for certain are his name, the two dates, and a single sentence. I solemnly retreat from those emotionless rows upon rows of stones, shoved into the ground in perfectly straight dotted with mismatched plastic flowers. The ripples of my thoughts replay the same questions over and over as I wonder what people will think of me when all my experiences, the sum of my life, have to be transformed into a name, two dates, and a sentence carved into stone.
