Cemeteries and funerals are for the living, not the dead–it’s what I’ve heard all my life. For even if any or all the -isms are right and life continues after death, what reward can a nice funeral or attractive grave site be for someone who is experiencing ultimate reality? That being said, there is one place on the planet where, were it logical logistically and fiscally, I would want to be buried.
Isolated on the top of a ridge with a view of the whole Tatra range, the cemetery at Ząb (“Tooth”) never ceases to provoke thoughts that should really, I suppose, be saved for a later point of my life: where would I want to be buried? What environment would I like for those who come to visit my grave? With what feeling would I like the experience to leave them?
Ząb’s cemetery leaves only one emotion: awe. Even wandering among the tragically small graves of children who lived a few weeks, a few days, a few hours doesn’t entirely dampen that feeling.
The small graves do provoke in L a certain solemnity that is rare in such a wound-up girl. She stands looking at the grave of a little boy who didn’t even live a full day, visibly shaken by it.
“Would you like to prayer for their souls like we pray for Dziadek’s soul?” I suggest.
“Tak,” comes the plaintive, affirmative reply. (She’s answering my English with Polish with increasing frequency lately.)
We cross ourselves. “W imiu ojca i syna i ducha swietego,” we begin, with L switching to English at this point.
“Are we praying for just him?”
“Maybe all of them?” I suggest with a sweep of my hand.
“Dobrze.” And back to English: “Have mercy on their souls and give them peace.” I think for a moment about what it would be like to lose a child after a day, a week, a month–to lose a child, period–and I think, “Perhaps we might better pray for the parents, pray that they have peace and that a quiet returns to their souls, for there’s no way, even after almost thirty years, a pain like that can ever go away.”
We cross ourselves anew, and L, back to her usual vivacious self, skips to cousin S and begins jabbering about something or other. Not only cemeteries are for the living; so too prayers.
As for our own peace, all we have to do is look around.
