Evergreen

I’ve taken many trips to the Evergreen Cemetery over the years, but the first was the fanciest. I bounced on the shiny limousine seat with my brothers as our dad stared out the window at the crawling line of cars that followed us through the streets. The limousine turned east, into the newer side of the cemetery that stretched flat and bare, and wound its way down paths until it reached a spot with flowers piled high and a hole in the ground.

That frozen day I discovered there’s not much to do at a cemetery but stand and look down—at dead grass disturbed, or a smooth silent casket, or your own toes as you kick the snow and let platitudes drift into your red-rimmed ears.

We returned to that spot many times, when the snow took its leave and the rectangle of uprooted sod began to blend into grass again. And now there was something else to rest our eyes on—an upright stone bearing names we knew. My mother’s on the left, along with two dates bookending a life too short. My father’s on the right, merely a placeholder, with an empty stretch of unbroken stone under his date of birth. I gazed at that blank space and decided that by the time it held a date, the two tiny trees planted on either side of this stone would have grown as tall as the pines that towered over the old graves to the west.

As the holidays and birthdays rolled on we came back, often with flowers, sometimes with nothing. One summer evening we brought a picnic and my dad set off fireworks right there on the paved road near our blanket. “Remember?” he said. “She always loved fireworks.” I worried about decorum but loved that he did it.

But mostly we’d go and just stand, hands in pockets, kicking at grass, stomping down snow, memorizing every inch of that headstone-turned-conversation piece. We’d move to the back of the stone, where the children’s names—our names—were listed, and argue over whose name had the favored location. Dad would comment on how the pine trees had grown. We’d meander around, pointing out new graves that popped up, Dad plucking little boys off the larger stones that were just asking to be climbed.

Occasionally, if there was time, we’d wander to the old side to visit the family plots of our great-grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, grandma, and later our grandpa. The cemetery was an expanse of indistinguishable headstones and trees, and I never knew where to go when we started across the street. But Dad knew, so I’d follow him mindlessly, half-listening to his explanation of the trees that served as landmarks, half-looking at the old pioneer headstones we passed. When we reached the row of Felixes, Dad would explain who belonged to whom, which of them he had known, and why some of the smallest stones bore only one date. We would scatter and play, but his words gave us roots.

So we grew right along with the trees that we watched. When I got my driver’s license I realized I could go to the cemetery alone, could lose myself there, and no one on earth would know where I was. I savored the idea, pictured myself kneeling on the ground, pouring out my heart while a comforting breeze whispered answers and peace. Wasn’t that what people did? But when I finally stood there in the pelting heat of a summer afternoon, my daydream seemed absurd. The silence in the air strangled any sound I might have made, but I knew I had nothing to say. As I wondered how long I would stay, the sound of tires on pavement made me suddenly self-conscious. The sight of my dad getting out of his work truck only heightened the feeling.

“Hi, Aim. Come here often?” He grinned a sort of apology for intruding. I gave some flippant answer. We stood together, hands in pockets, staring down at the stone.

Finally Dad cleared his throat. “We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

“What?”

“I mean, after all that’s happened, things are working out pretty well, right?”

“Oh yeah, things are okay.”

Until that day, it hadn’t occurred to me that Dad might visit the cemetery without us. How often did he stop there after work? Did he ever try to shatter the stillness and talk to her?

I never asked.

Right after my dad’s funeral, we pulled up to the cemetery gate in a long line of cars. This time I was sitting in the front seat of a messy minivan, assuring my three squirming children that we’d eat very soon. We spilled out onto that spot—the same old spot—but it was unrecognizable, with a temporary awning and chairs and that aberration of a hole. The headstone was gone, off to be engraved with its final date. And our two little trees, which had grown so slowly but steadily over more than two decades, had been torn out of the ground. Children ran everywhere and I turned around, disoriented. Could this be right? Was this really how it went?

Now it’s a warmer day. Our minivan turns down familiar paths once again. I see it first from a distance, the headstone sitting lonely, stripped of its twin companions. And now as my children race to the back to find my name, my eyes are pulled down to the date that has changed everything. Its newness is unmistakeable. This line of engraving is darker than the rest. Starker. Is this really how it goes?

With a jolt I realize my kids have never seen the old Felix plots across the street. I lead them to the shady side and hesitate. I don’t really know where I’m going. And here comes that prickling urge to call my dad and ask him which trees to look for. I shake it off and forge ahead, winding between headstones, straining to hear his voice. “Head for the tallest pine tree you can see. The one right next to that oak. The graves are one row east.” I raise my eyes and scan the treetops, then slightly change my course. The children follow like a row of ducklings, pointing out statues and sounding out names. And now we have found our people, and I feel taller in my relief. Then, standing in the shade of those steadfast trees, I tell them what I know.

On the way back to our van, I pluck my giggling son off an old and abiding headstone.