A Walk in the Park

A bleak day plagues central Washington as I zip up my leather boots. Overcast skies and sporadic rain drops meet me as I lock the door to head out. I take a deep breath, pulling up to my destination down a windy dirt road. Say hello when you arrive, say goodbye when you leave, don’t give them a chance to protest. I repeat my mantras of positivity and kindness walking up to the first name. trying to keep myself closed off to their energy, I push myself past the first and onto the next.

Death in all its forms is tragic, but nothing breaks my heart like a gravestone with a single year. Born and died, barely a month old, I wish I could do more than just look at a stone. I think of the mother and the father, the sister and the brother all saying goodbye to the fresh face who barely had a chance in life. One stone in particular makes my heart drop as I read it’s engraving, “Budded in life, blooming in heaven.”

I clutch my camera to my chest making my way to the next. Trying to make out the names is difficult sometimes, given the age of the stones. Most of them are long forgotten by the people who descend from their name, left to wither away in the elements. I brush off pine needles and overgrown grass around deep sunken stones, careful to watch my step on this sacred ground. Veterans and their faded flags lay in shadows of giant hemlocks. The state trees seem to salute the service men in their resting place

The dusk begins to settle as I continue on, taking snapshots of memorials long lost to time. Being respectful is my main goal, but I know they watch. Coming across a small square stone, deeply hidden in the weeds. I pull the grass from around the sides to reveal the tragic truth behind this neglected tribute. Unknown. I gasp for air in the deafening silence of my own thoughts. I can feel my heart break as I bend on one knee to capture this agonizing sight. My worst fear in life is to amount to an unknown stone, lost in a field of other, more grandiose, monuments. Whoever lay to rest in this spot had a life amount to more than this. But sometimes we don’t always get what we deserve.

This isn’t my first walk in the park, so to speak, but this one feels different. To be fair they all feel different. Each time you enter somebody else's home there are different rules that apply. Some are stricter than others and some don’t welcome you there at all. I tread lightly as the ground feels shaky beneath my feet. In places I feel the sinking of the soil and my heart drops as I quickly scurry away.

I go in ready to listen, ready to learn at each corner. Each stone tells a story and each story has layers. It’s not for the mere entertainment or curiosity, but rather the necessity. I feel it necessary to share stories that have gone untold, sometimes for hundreds of years. I like to think they walk alongside me as I meander through rows. Counting each story, each person who has been demeaned to stone. Holding my hand, sometimes I feel them brush my arm or whisper between gusts of wind. I’m not sure what they say, but it’s never mean, never rude. In death I’ve been shown more kindness than in life, an odd thing to process. Each photo I snap, each step I take I dive deeper into the lessons of life learned through death. I only hope I can bring them the same peace they have brought to me.