Glowing embers

The day after my dream about my mom at the cemetery, I went to visit her for the first time in two months. I guess I feel like visiting her at the cemetery is a little false to me, because to me, that's not where she is. Just her ashes. But not her. I walked into the mausoleum, and noticed right away how cold it was in the building. In the middle of the hallway is a stand for family members to put pictures, cards, flowers, things like that. I picked up her picture, a really cute one of her tying her shoes with one of her ball caps on, the white one we buried her with, and I took it with me to sit in front of her grave. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, and I put her picture in my lap. The building was so frigid, I kept my coat on, and I put my hood over my head. With my elbows resting on my knees, I placed my chin on my fists so I could look down at her picture. I cried for a while, just looking at her face and thinking about how much things have changed since she died. I tried to pray. I wrote it down so I would remember it.

"Dear God,

I know that I have not been very faithful lately, and I, now, doubt things more than ever because I am so scared I will never get to see her again. I guess that's just a defense mechanism for me in case Heaven is not true. If you're listening, and if you're not mad at me, I have something important to ask. Please keep her safe and happy and make sure she is not scared. Please please please let it be true that I get to be with her again. I am only 24 and I already don't know how much longer my heart can be away from her. I miss her so much. I will continue to live the life of a good, caring person and strive to make you happy through my activities here on Earth. I'm doing the best I can to regain my faith, and although that is not a problem of yours, I want to make sure you know I'm really trying my best. Regardless, I will always be a good person even if my faith is lacking right now. I just ask that you watch over her and make sure she is ok from time to time. I'm sure you're very busy, so it would mean a great deal to me. Thank you.

Love, Julia.

Amen."

I felt a little more calm after I finished, scrawling my words in my notebook as I quietly thought them to myself. Shortly after, a man walked in, said "hello," and walked past me to another part of the mausoleum. He was in his sixties probably, with white hair and glasses. I heard him whisper the Lord's Prayer quietly, and then he whispered his own private prayer. I felt a little ashamed to be listening to him, because that was a very private moment for him, I'm sure. But people's faith, especially lately, fascinates me. He was crying, and he blew his nose a few times. He only stayed for about 20 minutes, and I couldn't help but wonder who he was mourning.

I looked all around at the people's names surrounding my mom's. Their first names, their last names, their dates of birth, their dates of death. Some buried alone. Some together. Some waiting for their partners to follow. Near my mom, there is a 23 year-old girl, and beside this girl is an 18 year-old boy. I think of how unfair it is that my mom is gone. 58 is not an age to be leaving this Earth. But as I did the math to figure out how old these kids were, my age, and younger, my heart caught in my chest when I realized how short their lives were cut. On the opposite wall, a 7 year-old child is buried. I will never understand. Looking at the other angle of things, it baffles me how long people can live, and how they can live that old, that long, together. Right next to my mom is a couple, both 88 years old, both born, and both died the same exact year. I thought to myself how lucky they were. To live to an old age together, and to not have to be separated for very long. My mind wandered back to my mom, and back to the kids buried near her. I can't help but wonder if these people in their 80s who died together did something right, and my mom did something wrong. Ironically, she was what you would call a "goody two-shoes" all through school, where the worst thing she did was get drunk off of wine and come home and throw up in the flower box that covered my Aunt Polly's weed. She would always giggle when she told that story. She was the kindest, most giving person of anyone I knew. She never did anything wrong, she wouldn't hurt a fly, and she would give you the shirt off her back if she knew it would make you happy.

I do not understand why God takes people like this from Earth and leaves other, very terrible people here to rot in prison after they've raped or murdered. I do not understand it at all. My Aunt Polly never did anything to anyone. And neither did my mom. They were just beautiful. The kind of people we should all be so lucky to become one day. And they didn't even have to try.

I sat with her for a while, just petting her face on the picture and smiling at her. I let myself feel how sad I was without her, and how lost I feel without her here to guide me. Now in my life are some very important moments fast approaching, and not only is she not here to share them but she is not here to help me either. I let myself be disappointed and angry. I allowed myself to cry and miss her terribly, and I let myself wallow, sitting on the floor in front of her resting place. I let myself be showered with my emotions and my sadness, because I felt literally nothing else sitting there, staring into her face, only captured in a picture and nothing more. When I felt myself relax a little, I put her picture back on the stand. I kissed my fingertips and placed them gently on her grave, and whispered, "Bye momma, love you, love you, love you," and I walked away.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye a huge arrangement of flowers and pictures where the man had been praying. I walked slowly over to the display, and saw his face in several pictures with a very beautiful woman, who I am assuming was his wife. There were picture fames and flowers hung on her grave, including one of him and her dancing together with a saying underneath about always being together. His face was so much fuller, and you could see the joy in his eyes. His face, that day in the mausoleum, looked old and lost, and almost scared. On the grave was her name, birth and death, with his name underneath followed by only his birth date.

It was the one-year anniversary of her death.

My heart broke for him, and I was reassured to see the pictures were full of a large family, so I hoped he did not have to deal with this alone. I tend to worry about people on a constant basis, even if I don't know them from a ham sandwich. I can't help myself. I think since because I know how terribly miserable it feels, I can identify with their struggles and realities, missing someone who is no longer here. I marveled at his faith, at his ability to trust in God and to send up a prayer, regardless of how badly his heart was hurting. I think this is amazingly admirable in people, and something I do not have in myself. Although, I must say, I do not feel this is lost for me. Sort of like glowing embers in a fireplace--just enough light to remind you that something is still there. It may be small, but it is not gone.