The Other Side

The two of them watched as the family picked its way reverently through the cemetery, stopping to exclaim over one headstone or another.

“Look at this one!” the mother exclaimed. “This man served as a soldier in the First World War!”

Her three kids gathered around her and stared down at the marker.

“Ooh!” the oldest boy said. “A soldier!”

The three-year-old looked at his brother. Ooh!” he echoed.

Their sister simply stared, then reached for her mother’s hand.

“Come over here and look at this one!” The father had worked his way to the oldest part of the cemetery.

The family moved toward him . . .

The man snorted. “Look at them! Ooh-ing and ah-ing over the epitaphs!”

His companion smiled gently. “I think it’s charming!”

He looked at her. “Charming?! To wander among the dead, exclaiming over what their relatives thought appropriate to carve on their expensive headstones?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Pfff.” He turned back to the family. “Look at them, wandering around in their hideously mundane existence! Just look!” He pointed to the youngest son. “He’s picking his nose. How charming is that?”

His companion laughed. “He’s a child!”

“Oh, and now he’s . . .!” The man shuddered. “You know what the difference is between broccoli and snot, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Maybe I don’t want to . . .”

“Kids won’t eat broccoli!”

“James! That’s revolting!” She made a face.

“Yes. Revolting!” He turned a slightly nasty smile toward the wandering family.

“Well I, in probably what is a lone opinion, think they are precious! I hope they enjoy their time here today. And I dispense with any formalities and give them franchise to make a thorough and enlightening tour of the entire grounds!”

“Hmph! Like they need your permission!”

“Nevertheless, they have it!” She nodded decisively. Her face softened. “We who sleep, dream; wait 'neath marble slabs and blowing grass . . .”

James stared at her. “What are you talking about, Anne?! You didn’t wait fifteen seconds ‘neath marble slabs and waving grass!”

She laughed, rather self-consciously. “Well, I am a bit claustrophobic.”

“Claustrophobic?! How can you be claustrophobic when you’re dead?!”

“Well, you're dead too!” Anne shot back.

“Yes, I am!” James glanced at the family once more. “And here are these awful people stomping around without the least respect for the people they are tramping heedlessly over!”

“They’re not awful!” Anne said. “They’re . . .” She paused, then pointed. “Look!”

James spun around.

The little family had reached the furthest corner of the grounds. A small, slightly overgrown area, rough with tree roots from the encroaching forest growth. The father had knelt down and was pulling carefully at some grass and weeds. “Look at this!” he said softly.

“What is it dear?” The mother and her children crowded close.

“These must be the oldest graves in the cemetery! See this one?!” The man leaned closer. “Sixteen . . . something.”

The mother knelt beside him and bent over, pulling her glasses to her nose and peering over them. “I think it’s a seventy-four.” She nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it is. 1674.”

The father traced the faded carving gently. “James Marion. . . Coville? Goville?”

“I think it’s Coville. See, there has been a part chipped off to make it look like a ‘G’.”

He nodded, then pulled out a small, obviously well-used notebook and scribbled something. “James Coville.” He said. “1674.” He touched the small slab gently. “Well, that’s as good a place to start as any!”

“Wait, Dad!” The oldest boy had moved to one side. “Look! Here’s another beside it, but it has tipped over and is almost covered.”

The man got to his feet and joined him. “Huh. You’re right, son.” He knelt again and pulled away the overgrowth, then brushed off the stone. “This one has been more exposed and is more worn.”

“I can’t make out a date,” the mother said. She traced the stone with reverent fingers. “It looks like . . . Anne?”

“That’s about all I can see, too,” the father said. He stood up and studied the two stones. “They are the only two over here, so I’m going to assume that they are connected somehow and go from there.” Again, he made a note in his book.

The mother nodded. “Good idea.”

The father pocketed his notebook and reached for his smallest son’s hand. “Well, shall we go? I have a feeling that there is a lot of work to do.”

The mother nodded. “Come on kids.”

The family began to pick their way to the entrance.

Anne watched them go, then turned and elbowed her companion. “A penny for your thoughts?”

For the first time in over 400 years, James was silent.

Sundays are for ancestors. 

Today was for someone else's.

Tell me about yours!