We all have secrets.

I like to hang out at the cemetery.

It wasn’t always like that though. Growing up, my parents taught us that the cemetery was a sacred space to be deeply respected, and in some ways, feared. The veil was believed to be very thin, and you didn’t know who or what would follow you home.

It is interesting all the ways we seek to be with our loved ones after they are gone though. After my sister passed away, people would tell me that she was always with me in a spiritual sense, but the cemetery was where I knew her to be physically. I very quickly got over my fear of cemeteries to visit her regularly.

Most of my initial visits were on rough days, which felt like every day. I would stop there on my way home from work, after visiting family, or running errands. Then I would tell my sister all the things taking up space in my head and in my heart.

“What’s the wisdom?” I’d ask.

Sometimes, it came as the crow who trusted her wings as she perched high on the honey locust. Or the stillness of Halfmoon Lake, inviting me to ease into the season.

Then I would invite my sister to come along and play. Life’s too short to be too serious, I’d say. Heck, she could haunt me a little if she wanted. I wouldn’t mind.

Maybe my dogs would though.

”

every so often, there would be a burial. family, friends, and community members would come to gather.

To share memories. To say goodbye. I would watch them from afar, remembering the day my sister was buried. Remembering how we heal in community.

Eventually, I started visiting my sister to celebrate. Birthdays. Holidays. The sun returning after a stretch of rain. The first batch of egg rolls for the year.

The more I hung out, the more I got to know the other cemetery visitors. Just a few rows over, there was the woman who curled herself up against her father’s headstone each time and wept.

It seems when we are broken, our hearts find each other.

Then there was the couple who brought their young child to play. I wondered who they were visiting. Maybe a grandparent or an uncle. Perhaps a sibling or friend. They left an entire snow family and imprints of angels. 

After winter left about a foot of snow, I couldn’t reach my sister despite the main roads being plowed. There, I stood on the edge trying to figure out which bump in the snow was her headstone. Disappointed, I made my way home. On my way out, I noticed a couple who had shoveled a path to a headstone where they placed a doll and a little Christmas tree for their daughter. I went home to grab my shovel, so I could continue to sit with my sister through winter.

On my drive out of the cemetery, I would often run into an old college friend who lost his wife during the pandemic. Together, we would wonder where our loved ones are, acknowledging we didn’t know for sure but trusting we would see them again.

Every so often, there would be a burial. Family, friends, and community members would come to gather. To share memories. To say goodbye. I would watch them from afar, remembering the day my sister was buried. Remembering how we heal in community.

The cemetery visitors wouldn’t be complete without all the critters. Like the neighborhood dogs who leave pawprints in the snow after playing. There were the deer who crossed over from the lakeside to the forest, always mindful as they moved through. Then there were the sparrows who watched over their nest and perhaps my sister, too.

I think of the cemetery, in a way, as a place where the community gathers. We don’t all know each other, but we gather for the same reasons. To mourn our loss. To celebrate. To see that we’re not alone in our sorrow.

And maybe, hanging out at the cemetery is not so secret after all.