Fertile - Fertiliser

I took a stroll through the cemetery today. That’s the best word for it.

It wasn’t premeditated. It was, I suppose, opportunistic. I could waste hours analysing the decision but it was little more than a whim based on the attractive contrast of a bright, sunny day and a dim venue.

Is a cemetery a gloomy place on a sunny day, or is it, like most things, simply a product of one’s perspective based on current disposition? That was pretty much the question that popped into my head as I passed the wrought iron gate, dislodging the pother of other discordant thoughts scrambling around in there.

Sometimes distraction itself is what we seek, subconsciously or otherwise.

I fished out a cigarette at the gate, lit it up and leaned for a moment. Because I was being watched and I didn’t want to look like a mourner. I don’t know why it mattered.

For a while I simply meandered. I had no reason or objective to guide me. Pretty much the opposite really. In fact a couple of times I asked myself what the fuck I was doing. I didn’t have an answer but it didn’t matter. Anything we do, willingly or not, eventually takes on meaning; or we give it meaning.

The grass was very green, the sky very blue. The various graves, plaques and head stones however, left their usual visual message on my mind. What an incredible waste of space. What an eyesore. What the hell is wrong with people that they require this physical reminder of the departed that actually has nothing to do with the departed themselves? Why this bizarre and essentially ugly focal point to past lives that were so much broader than such confined, hard, cold spaces? I have never understood it. Doubt I ever will.

My own father passed away 26 years ago. I visited his plot once because I…guess I was following the convention. He’s there. You are supposed to visit. Aren’t you? He was identified by his name on the plaque. My name was on there too, along with the names of my siblings. And my Mum. All of our names on a piece of metal randomly positioned in a small cemetery in a small town where none of us live. When the last of those names has ended so will the memory and reason for that piece of metal. Yet it will endure.

I am standing now before one of the more ornate and venerable graves in the cemetery. It tells me that Thomas Edward Kelson died on the 1st of September in 1903. Loving husband to Mary Elizabeth. There is no sign of Mary Elizabeth here though and I’m fairly certain that she isn’t above ground any longer. So where is she? Why isn’t she lying here beside her husband?

Because Mary Elizabeth moved on. Because life goes on. Because lives endure. Perhaps not as long as the celebratory plaques which proclaim them ended, but long enough. No, Mary Elizabeth is taking up the space of the living in some other location, perhaps lying next to husband number two.

You may read that as callous. It’ isn’t. Do I think Mary Elizabeth visited Thomas Edward here? I’m sure she did. Once, twice, many times, who knows? But when she stopped coming, did she stop caring? Did she forget her Thomas Edward? I think not. I think she was just…elsewhere, moving on. And I’m sure that for her, Thomas Edward remained an important memory, irrespective of his final resting place; irrespective of its location, its condition…its existence.

There is nobody around now. The sun is still vibrant, the air is still fresh. The world around Thomas Edward is still as extant as that first day of spring when he succumbed, one hundred and seven years ago. So I asked him: Do you still need this space Tom? I can see why you might like it, on the hill here with views of the river, surrounded by beautiful native landscape, but really, do you still need it?

And do you know what he said to me? Nothing. But I know what he meant by that. He meant: “Mate, remove all the stone work, fallow in the rows of pretty rose bushes, mow the grass and let the families picnic, let the kids play ball and fly kites, let the dogs run, let the living live.”

But he added: “Of course, that’s just my opinion. You’ll have to ask little Kate Marie opposite if she concurs.”

Kate Marie Bachelor. Beloved of Cathryn and George. Died on 27th May 1912. Two years old. “Another Little Lamb Lost”. I notice then, there are quite a few little lambs here surrounding Thomas Edward. Henry James, 18 months; Gregory Forster, 3 years; Henrietta Davidson, 11 months; Felicity Moncrieff, 5 years. Herbert and Harold Lyons, brothers, twins, one month.
There must have been some sort of epidemic that captured the young of that era. How very sad. How…unfair.

Tears have welled in my eyes and I let them spill without interference. Where children are concerned, any sort adversity affects me. Always has, but more so since my own daughters were born. So young! And now, so forgotten. Henrietta has family here but none of the others do. Where did all those families go? Does anyone now know that baby Herbert and baby Harold are here?

I feel for the boys, that’s part of my humanity. Yet, as I stroll on down the row I know deep down that I will never return, that I will forget. I know that when the pressures of everyday living reinfect my mind, Herbert and Harold will become insignificant punctuation marks in my history and…I know that is part of my humanity as well.

It’s an interesting conundrum. I might advocate bulldozing this place in favour of revegetation or to create a park for the living, but could I drive the bulldozer? I know I couldn’t.

As I left the cemetery I leant again on the gate and smoked a cigarette, and wondered. If I read in the paper next week that the place was earmarked for redevelopment as parkland, would I be upset? Would I be disappointed? Would I object?

No on all counts.
I would be sad I suppose, for a reflective moment.
But, no.

Millions of people are born and die every day. I’ve got the message already. When I’m gone I know some people will remember me, for a while. I know who they are. They’ll know who I was. That’s enough.

So, I don’t want to be a name or number on a piece of metal or a slab of granite, hogging the space of the living. Instead:
- Take of my possessions the art that touches you.
- Take of my body that which can aid the living.
- Ferry my remains out into the bush, dig a hole, drop me in, cover me up and plant a tree.
And should the loving living require a marker of some sort, perhaps place an X on a map and scribble: “Here lies Baf; husband, father, friend, poet. Once fertile, now fertiliser.”

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baf, bafmedia, brett foster, cemetary, death, fertiliser, fertilizer, forgotten, grave, living, lost, photobloke, plaque and tombstone