Gravestone. Headstone. I saw it today as it waits for warmer weather to go to its destined place. Heavy. Final. The milestone beyond which there is no passing, the end of a long wearying road.
We say a contract is carved in stone, or a proposal, or an opinion; but this is carved in stone. There's no levity here, and no right of appeal. A chapter has been closed; a book that was open in this world, where all comers could read stories of love, life and happiness, is shut.
If I did not sometimes feel Amelia's pixie hand on the reins of my life, confronting this reality would be too heavy, unbearable. In the grand scheme of things it's not so bad, but it still kind of seems that nobody should have to cause something like this to be made, have to pass judgement on it, accept it for the stonemason's sake.
And yet....
Even here, there is something to appreciate. The star is actually an image copied from a crop circle that appeared in the dewey long grass of an English hillside one morning in 1997. How strange that a nine-pointed star should have been left by some agency, whether heavenly or all to earthly; but now it has found a more permanent home, and so very far away. And yet not so far: just next to where this stone will stand is my grandfather's, carven with a Celtic cross from one of his ancestors' stones, from a churchyard in Scotland--a mystical kinship of a kind. And not so far: I can go there to visit her, I did so today.
I like the crisp elegance of the letters; she too would have liked that, so keen for fine things, elegant things. The verse, it suits her like it was written for her by the Hand of the Master she loved so well. And I like that the edges, the smallest portion of the whole, are still rough: so hard she worked to smooth the planes of her life, and so well she did it, and yet after all the work was unfinished--something for her to do in eternity, maybe. And, last, I like the little curve across the top: she worked hard--she could be hard herself, on deceit, on unfairness, on disrespect, on carelessness or neglect--but she worked on her life, too, as on a work of art, with care and flair and style and wit, and over all a sure, confident hand.
Oh, I miss her today!
Wow, the headstone. I remember when my grandmother died, the hardest part of her passing for me was seeing her headstone months later. But maybe it's just a test like any other thing, and surviving "the headstone" is just another part of growth.
Posted by: lacey | January 07, 2004 at 01:15 PM
It really is a milestone, I guess, along the journey of the one who stays here, though the departed one's journey in this earthly life may be over--one of those omens with many meanings. Thanks, Lacey, for setting fingers to keys.
Posted by: Bill/to Lacey | January 07, 2004 at 01:21 PM