The Gainesville Cemetery
The cemetery in Gainesville, Texas, is usually peaceful. It lies in a residential section of the city away from busy streets or noisy factories. Scattered oak trees shade some of the flowers that are on various tombstones, and the stones, beautiful works or art, remind me that this is more than just a place for dead people; it is a place to remember the nice things about someone you used to know.
I keep reminding myself of this as I stand behind the metal box that holds Grandmother and listen to the preacher finish the graveside service.
Mother has not looked around to see the details of the graveyard. In fact, she can't - her view is blocked by relatives crowding around the tent. She is still crying, though it has eased since the chapel service when she could not walk up the aisle by herself. Looking at Mother is about to make me cry to I turn my attention to the cemetery again.
Some of the tombstones are fading yellow because of age. I guess everything changes, but I hope this cemetery is an exception. I want Grandmother to always have a place as nice as this will be when warm weather comes. But for now it is so cold it hurts. The wind seems to mock the preacher by making the sides of the tent flap violently and without a pause.
Granddad, in his best suit, can't stop shaking and stares at the hold under the box knowing that in a few years he'll be there beside her.
As a pallbearer, I'm very close to this hole myself, and the tent keeps beating me on the back like it wants to push me in.
If Grandmother will be patient, warm weather will bring real flowers for her to replace the plastic ones I can see from here. At least, that is what I keep telling myself as I try to notice anything besides Mother's face.
I keep reminding myself of this as I stand behind the metal box that holds Grandmother and listen to the preacher finish the graveside service.
Mother has not looked around to see the details of the graveyard. In fact, she can't - her view is blocked by relatives crowding around the tent. She is still crying, though it has eased since the chapel service when she could not walk up the aisle by herself. Looking at Mother is about to make me cry to I turn my attention to the cemetery again.
Some of the tombstones are fading yellow because of age. I guess everything changes, but I hope this cemetery is an exception. I want Grandmother to always have a place as nice as this will be when warm weather comes. But for now it is so cold it hurts. The wind seems to mock the preacher by making the sides of the tent flap violently and without a pause.
Granddad, in his best suit, can't stop shaking and stares at the hold under the box knowing that in a few years he'll be there beside her.
As a pallbearer, I'm very close to this hole myself, and the tent keeps beating me on the back like it wants to push me in.
If Grandmother will be patient, warm weather will bring real flowers for her to replace the plastic ones I can see from here. At least, that is what I keep telling myself as I try to notice anything besides Mother's face.