Two Years

Since my mother died, that is. I knew her death's anniversary was coming up but temporarily forgot, perhaps partly because I stayed the night at my cousin Dave's. After my cup of coffee, and after reading a story by Annie Proulx, watching the almost-rain fail to make up its mind outside the window, it came home to me. I went for a jog then drove home by way of Deansgrange. The flower woman was in place so I bought a pot of yellow chrysanthemums which smelt nice and fresh. After driving to her grave I pulled in for a moment to let it sink in. And sink in it did. A phrase came to me: grief is a muscle. It isn't so much that the heart breaks, as that one becomes rawly conscious (yet again) of what the heart does –– keeps beating –– and of who gave it its kickstart.

The interestingly carved stone cross above is not my mother's and grandparents' grave. I had wandered a bit among the other graves, that great stone quilt tucked neatly into the suburbs, and found this cordoned off behind roadworker tape, at the back of a kind of mechanical digger/pickup. They had presumably been cutting down storm-damaged trees or branches.

Then I moseyed further, under one of the little belts of trees: cypresses, yew, etc. It was hard to know whether I was walking over peoples' graves, though I tried to avoid this (I inherited a fair bit of superstition from mum and cultivated some of my own too). There were some old fires (a half-burnt chair), beer cans and lots of ivy draped everywhere, like a hastily but lavishly designed stage set for a Gothic movie. Plenty of birds riffling in the branches, and a couple of quick-slithering squirrels. I poked about for a bit then headed back to the car.