Those We Leave Behind

Those We Leave Behind

It feels like I have been standing in this field all my life. From here I can see the edge of town where trees and rivers disappear into steel and glass. Looking up, the sun is arcing across a sky littered with clouds full of moisture and roiling ready to rain. Kestrels glide on eddies, wings backlit against a canvass of dark blue and shades of grey. There is a stillness about this place; a sense of peace far from the hurly burly of civilisation.

The box under my arm holds a key to the future; contained within is part of my bridegroom outfit. I never thought I would ever get married. My sister Mary always said I would live alone other than a house full of pets. Things were different back then. It’s funny where your mind meanders to when left to its own devices. I can see her blonde hair and blue eyes sitting inside a play ride-a-long Volkswagen. She is six-years-old and wearing a pink tee-shirt under denim dungarees. Next to her is Marley our fluffy white sheepdog; his blackberry nose twitching, ears gently flapping as they motor along in the sunshine. The two of them were inseparable. At times, you could be forgiven for thinking that our canine was almost human.

I meander along a dirt path heading towards the Baptist church. There’s a graveyard there; it’s been a while since my last visit. The white timber-frame hall is in sight. Spruce-firs and aspen stand stoically in the grounds like age-old sentries. I wander across a patch of grass and make for the tombstones that are now conspicuous to the right. A low picket fence forms a border around the old granite markers, some so aged that wording has worn away; an array of names, dates and epitaphs to accompany bones buried underground.

I shuffle past rows of stone memorials and find the resting place of my parents and stand in front of the grave bed. The flowers need replacing although I have forgotten to bring a bunch today. My guilt is palpable. I’m not one for talking to dead people; I see others do it and that’s their prerogative. Instead, an inner monologue winds its way around my head like tendrils of mist on a damp, foggy day. They are missed, of course; we were a close family.

My thoughts stray:

It’s a dark night in November. Rain is hammering against the car windows of my father’s Chevy. Lightning flashes across the sky, splintering like broken glass. I am peering out at the storm, my sister next to me on the back seat. Dad is driving and struggling to see through the windshield. Mom looks worried, apprehension etched on her features as she turns to check that we are ok. In that moment, I notice how beautiful she is. Despite the dread, I smile and, just for a second, she looks confused. Before she has a chance to return the sentiment, a loud shuddering noise blocks everything out. The car careens, spinning crazily across the road. Everything goes black.  

I still remember that fateful evening as though it was yesterday. Timeless. Turned out it was a guy in a truck who had drunk one too many and fallen asleep at the wheel. He was riddled with remorse when the case came to court but the consequences were too serious to spare him from a jail term. Life is precious and it was a painful journey of introspection trying to come to terms with whether I could forgive him. Even now, I can’t work out where the right place on that moral compass is. Half of me wanted to beat him badly, the other understanding that he made a mistake and that we are all capable of erring.   

I switch off the dark musing. After all, the reason for being here is to convey the joy of my forthcoming union. My mother would have liked Anne. They are similar in many ways. I think about the last time I saw mom alive and how her features became engrained in my memory. Her emerald eyes and elegant nose, those wonderfully full lips and kind face. She loved life and cared for her children even more. My partner is a little more reticent than that but has that same underlying goodness about her; maybe a latent similarity that I am only just appreciating. 

I think dad would have approved of Anne too. He was fierce; ex-navy and, later, butcher by trade. John Travers stood six foot four inches tall and had a gruff disposition to match his size. Often caught up in fights over card games, by his own admission he had a quick temper but it was mom that was the calming influence.  Had he survived the crash, I would have feared for the driver who caused the accident. As it was, neither parent made it.

Once more I am taken back to that sunny day watching my sister and our beloved pooch in the garden. Halcyon days. Of course, we had our ups and downs like everyone else but she was as much a part of that dark night as the rest of us. With the deafening sound of impact, I was thrown to one side and into her. We were a jumble of arms and legs on that back seat. All I can remember before the metaphorical lights went out is feeling her body as I rammed into it, knocked sideways by the force of the collision. She was in hospital for days. The doctors tried so hard to save her.

It was always the two of us. When she wasn’t driving that silly car and messing with the dog, we could be found in a leafy meadow down by the banks of the river than ran a few hundred yards from our house. In summer we would wade through reeds and lark about in the water. An old tire hung from a rope tied to a tree branch that we had made with the help of our father. Both mom and dad would watch as we dangled in the air, legs splayed, laughing like loons. I yearn for those times and the chance to see my parents one more time. Of course, that can’t happen. Death is final although I am sure their spirits roam these pastures. We all seek indelible moments of nostalgia. It sounds romantic. Maybe that’s how we want the afterlife to look (if there is such a thing).  

It seems that my family was fated to suffer the injustices that life can throw up. It’s only now that I appreciate how lucky I might be. Turning to leave, a slender, elegant woman is waiting by the arched iron-gate at the cemetery entrance. Marley is long gone now but my sibling Mary is still here. She waves and walks towards me. We exchange smiles as I throw my arm around her shoulders. Overhead, another rusty-red kestrel is flapping its wings as it hovers, facing into the wind. I admire its beauty and ability to defy the elements. For a few seconds it’s as though everything is frozen in time. Mary taps me on the shoulder and looks quizzical. Words aren’t needed at this moment. I am ready for a new chapter in life. We know we will never forget and, for as long as we are here, choose to remember. Always.    

Image free to use via WikiCommons at: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Falco_tinnunculus_-_Common_kestr...