"I can’t remember where my relatives are. It’s been a long time since I was here. . ." I say, starting the conversation. He points me to the office. "They have all the names and places there, you can ask them," he says helpfully, but this is a matter of pride for me. I persist in my walk up and down the tombs until I find myself in another section and I see my grandmother’s tombstone engraved with a silhouette that my artistic cousin designed. He lies buried beside her. "There it is," I say. The blue guard and I are pleased.
An old lady pops up from behind one of the tombs. My Third Eye scans her: Human not spirit, undeveloped spirit in fact. "Who are they to you?" she asks, shaking her head in the direction of our family plot. I dislike her instantly though I know she means no harm. "They are my ancestors," I say. My cousin from his grave protests. Don’t call me that, I’m younger than you, he teases. In my heart I smile at him – hey!
"Nobody takes care of their tombs anymore. This always used to be so clean," she says. I look where she gestures. Except for some dried leaves and twigs over my grandmother’s grave the tomb is clean. No ferns, no moss, nothing to soften the grey marble and give it character. It is not a charming tomb like they have in English graveyards. "I used to know the man who took care of them. His name was de Guzman. He’s dead now," she says, positioning herself. She wants me to hire her. I nod, taking paper and pencil from my handbag. I didn’t come here to visit. The people who dwell here visit me wherever I am. We have no need for cemeteries. I came here to write down their dates of birth and death. The information floats around my fading memory. I copy it and get it right.
The old woman, an unwelcome presence, shuffles behind me. In my head I hear a discussion between my mother and me. She’s saying she must give money to the caretaker of these tombs. I’m saying the tombs are in a memorial park, a perpetual care facility. The institution is supposed to take care of the tombs. How does a caretaker have access and why do they have to be paid extra?
It must be my marketing background that makes me strict about this. You sell on a premise or promise, you deliver on it. You promised we wouldn’t have to deal with grave caretakers. Why did my mother and uncle before her have to deal with one? Why is there one hovering around me now?
"I know the one who used to pay the former caretaker," she said. "He used to come here alone. He used to talk to me." That would be my uncle who’s also dead now. I look her straight in the eye. "I’m not looking for a caretaker. We’re moving." You could feel her lose interest. I was suddenly inconsequential. "This property must be worth a lot now," she muttered as she walked away. I wanted to feel more sympathy for her but didn’t and didn’t want to invest time wondering why.
Our bronze plaques are so tarnished, I have to feel some dates with my fingers. Braille, I think idly as I read some dates with my fingertips. My stepfather is the last death but he’s not buried here. He donated his remains to medical science. This is just a marker we have for him. It was my grandaunt, my grandmother’s sister, a surrogate parent, a fairy godmother who was last buried here 23 years ago. I remember the way I had the coffin set up in church. The floral arrangements I chose. At her request she was buried in a short powder blue dress I had given her. We didn’t know that the coffin had full length glass and so her legs were showing awkwardly. "I sent material to the chapel. Go and wait for them to bring her in. Then cover her legs before the visitors come," my aunt said over the phone. She had chosen pink chiffon and my Lola looked beautiful in her coffin surrounded by that soft pink and blue. Why do I always get to open the coffins? Why do my aunts always call me for this?
My other aunt, older, did the same thing at my grandmother’s wake, "The rosary she’s holding should be broken otherwise someone in the family will follow. Open the coffin and break it." Why me? I wanted to say, but I’m the granddaughter who was almost a daughter. I was the dutiful one. Was? I’m still here making notes, making plans.
What memories hover around this plot? At that last burial my eldest daughter showed up late wearing a flaming red blouse at a time when everyone wore black to a funeral. I remember my cousin’s widow wailing her grief at the last moment. I remember feeling as I stood here then that I would drown in this vale of tears but I did not. I never do.
When was I last here? I was with my mother when I caught sight of a beautiful flowering tree, trunk so wide you couldn’t embrace it, full of big bright yellow flowers and fruit that grew on the trunk, round brown fruit almost as big as a bowling ball. I picked one of the hard heavy round fruit and brought it home, left it on the kitchen counter to ripen. Then one day the strange fruit stank up the kitchen. It rotted before it ripened. We had to throw it away. That house is gone. My mother is in Vancouver. Since I was last here four of my eight grandchildren were born. The oldest of them is seven now. I must have been here eight or nine years ago.
Don’t leave your dead people with me. I don’t visit their graves. I don’t remember where they are. On All Saints or All Souls, I don’t visit them with candles and flowers because crowds make me dizzy. Instead I light candles at home and wait for them to visit me. They come often especially now that I’m alone, much older, more attuned to their world. That’s why I can’t remember when I was last here or at any cemetery. That’s why if you want me to visit their graves, you shouldn’t leave your dead people with me.