A reverent silence lay like the morning mist on the tombstones of the old cemetery. An occasional rustle of dry leaves in the cool winter breeze and a bird’s soulful song could be heard. I stood still taking in the scene before me. Dry broom straw and tall grass with tiny white plumes grew in patches. Scattered gravel rested on barren ground where nothing grew. The hilltop was scattered with headstones. Many had been forgotten over the years. Grass and wild blackberry vines grew among the stones. Broken headstones lay half buried in the weeds. Fire ants set up housekeeping beside old stumps and broken stones. Faded silk flowers were scattered in the tall grass. Some headstones were intricate in design while others were mere unadorned rocks taken from the lake shoreline just a stone’s throw away. Yet both were lovingly placed to mark where a loved one had taken final rest. Names and dates were worn away by time, though some did not even have that luxury. Some names were hidden under moss that grew in the etched letters.
My imagination ran away with me. I saw grieving families by freshly dug graves. I heard the soft “thud” as dirt fell onto the wooden casket that lay in the ground. I smelled fresh roses splashed with daisies that covered the dirt mound. I felt the tears fall like raindrops as last goodbyes were spoken.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet on bare ground. I lifted my eyes and saw a stooped old man. He walked with a cane, poking it along in front of him to find solid ground on which to place his unsteady feet. He leaned on his cane and peered over a tombstone. I studied the scene before me. None of us are guaranteed tomorrow, but as age creeps upon us, each breath brings us one step closer to our mortality. Life is fleeting.
I watched the little man as he wandered through the tombstones. He would bend to look at one, then another. I wondered what was going through his mind. Was he, too, brought face to face with our mortality? His 89 years had been lived to the fullest. He had stories to tell, memories to share, wisdom to impart.
The little bent man had told me just minutes before that the first 80 years of life were traveled on the designated road. Everything after that was a shortcut – some were just longer than others. I certainly understood his words. I had traveled with him many times. He would take the road off the beaten path. His shortcuts turned into long-cuts, but they were laden with adventures. I did not begrudge any of those shortcuts. Now he rode with me on my adventures and would often ask, “Is this a shortcut?”
written 2015