" Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio."
~Hamlet
The first time I ever ran away from home I chose to go a scant three blocks to the house of an elderly couple. They went to my church, and were long time friends of my family. She a dark haired, kindly lady, He a handsome and hulking man. I showed up on their door step, bags and teddy in tow and They let me in. She made me warm peaches and cream and left me alone to tell Him why I would like to reside at their house from now on. He listened to many small reasons patiently. Nodding and humphing at the appropriate intervals until my tale was told. Then He sat back in His chair, took a long deep breath, and meditated. I felt confident that They would keep me. After all I already sat with them during church, and I visited them many times a week. So my surprise was genuine when He said that I should go home. He said that despite my feelings to the contrary, my parents did love me, and would miss me. He mentioned how lonely my sisters would be and reminded me about my dog. Explaining that as much as They loved me I did not belong with Them. Eventually, after many treats, They persuaded me to return to my dog, sisters and parents. (In that order).
Today, on an unseasonably warm and beautiful January afternoon I stood back as He was laid to rest next to the wife who left his side only weeks before. It was a small, military graveside service, I having never met any of his children, spoke only to an ancient woman who knew me as a child. Once the scene was void of the living, alongside grave diggers I set to work on the last thing I could do for this Man. I removed my scarf paired gloves with a shovel and began to bury His body.
During my many wanderings up and down the roads of the cemetery I have become familiar with a name or two. An old school friend and his brother, the old neighbor, a teacher, my family, the family of friends. I take more notice and pay more care to the ones I knew, in turn they provide me with the reminder of the fragility of existence. To bury the remains of an unknown person is something done with reverence and respect. Burying whats left of a friend is something sacred.
Today, what was once a man I knew was what I now covered with earth. Beneath the lid was a face I had kissed. Arms that had hugged me and carried me, hands that could be counted upon to produce candy at any time. My shovel moved on its own as I, disconnected from my body, watched mournfully. Somewhere I registered that His soul hovered not far off. Part of my brain filled with the moments that compiled memories, another small section recalling how it always seems that people I love get the most agreeable weather for burial, and the other portions divided between my children, my aging grandparents, and to how peaceful I felt at that moment.
For the first time I was grateful for my crime and the opportunity it had afforded me. To be able to pay respect and homage in a way most are never allowed. My hours today did not go towards my sentence, they went towards a life lived well.
