Headstones

I noticed by now that at least the two stations before Bridgeport share one thing in common: they have a cemetery right by the eastern end of the station, so the dead could hear the train rumbling by at least every hour. I found that rather amusing. Some of the headstones looked so old that I was pretty sure the dead was alive before the tracks were born. By now they have cleared paths in the cemetery for the living to visit the past. The two cemeteries looked very much alike, and when I discovered the one next to the second station, I almost thought we were pulling into the first station. The headstones looked the same, and their simplicities extended to the cemeteries' overall feel. There were no fancy little buildings; not sure the proper world for them. Any tourist who had visited any touristy cemeteries, like those in Paris or the one in Buenos Aires, knows that a tomb can be a lot more than just a piece of stone weathered away like the undead vestige of the withered inhabitant below.

When I visited the the Recoleta cemetery in Buenos Aires, I noticed, despite the throngs of tourists, how crowded the place was, crowded not of tourists only, but of the tombs. Every one was a nice little building all made of stone, just that some stones seemed more expensive than others, and some tombs more elaborate than others. I was there on a photography expedition with my tango buddy, who was on an art expedition for her project. It was very interesting to learn about some tiny sliver of culture of this city by looking at how people built and decorated the tombs, for themselves or, more likely, for those they were bidding goodbye to. The confused and often irrational relationship between the living and the dead can be found so striking in the culture of tombs.

I wasn't thinking about my best friend's Dad when I saw the cemeteries. However, I suppose one day I will go visit "him" when I visit the living that still love him. He doesn't exist anymore. In those precise words are evoked all the confusions about the dead. The confusions are, of course, with the living. How to let go. How to ignore the reality. How to bear a future so different now. I care about him, or "cared" about him. I am very saddened that I will never see his grumpy face that belied a lot of love, even for someone like me whom he hardly knew except that I was the most important person for his daughter while she was an ocean away. I cared more about the living. I felt even sadder that I couldn't directly offer my condolence to my friend's family because I knew that to do so I would have to know exactly the right words laden with emotion to tell them, all in Spanish. And I didn't feel good enough about my Spanish to do so. And so I told my best friend to tell them I thought about them.

I care, obviously, most about my best buddy, who has now returned to her home in London. I wonder how she really feels. She is still an ocean away from her island, though the same timezone, and the flight is half of what it would be from the US. She said she didn't suffer as much as the rest did because she had been a bit more detached from her Dad and the family since moving out of the island nine years ago. The rest, however, have been together on the same island for all their lives, and to lose someone you saw everyday, for not a few hours each day, so suddenly, and to lose him in such an agonizing way of waiting, not being able to say goodbye, no drama, just watching him in slipping from a coma into oblivion, I can only imagine. But for my friend, she said she felt stronger than others because she was not as attached. Her poor mother. Losing someone you spent most of your life with, all the smiles, silence, and strife, all the things you learn about someone even if you know you aren't always happy together. I remember being told of the story of how they connected first. They didn't even meet. My friend's mother looked through a book of soldiers, and when she saw him, she said to her friend sitting next to her that that boy was the one she wanted. Not particularly romantic, but unique. And how many stories, how many romantic or dramatic upheavals, real or just in the heart, ensued. But she had her children, and even minus my friend, there were still three boys and a teenage niece. When she came to visit her daughter, I spent some time with her, even driving her to the airport and flying back to the island with her so she wouldn't have to return home alone. She's a very special woman, and I wish I could be there with her for a few minutes to offer my direct consolation that would be simpler than any Spanish words I felt a need to conjure up on the phone.

Still, I am thinking mostly about my friend. I wonder how she's feeling. I want to ask her but the question seems stupid: how are you feeling? Joyful! Never been happier! Of course. Not. I never lost anyone in my family. Not in this permanent way, at least. It's a part of life to lose someone in your family at some point, unless you're unfortunate enough to get hit on the head with a fallen brick. Can I tell myself that? That she would feel fine soon, accepting that this is just part of life?

One day I will be on her warm, tropical island, saying goodbye one last time to a man who showed me his "finca", where he planted potatoes, orange trees, flowers, and raised rabbits and chickens, where in his big shed he offered me some homemade brandy, where he introduced me to friends who were even more quaint, and in many ways, like him, very manly, very simple people, not bothering to get too confused about what it meant to be a man when what you had was an island and some land you owned in it. He respected his only daughter, the only one who escaped the island, went to the most famous country in the world. I liked that part about him. He was a man, reticent, grumpy often, but he respected his daughter. He made his own food, didn't need a woman to slave for him. He took care of himself while his sons became unbearably dependent on their mother. My friend must be very happy to have such a great father. I wonder how she feels now….