Between a Rock and a Sad Place

He is conspicuous by his stillness.

He stands there every day, without fail.

Arms akimbo.

Or at his sides.

Sometimes hands in his pockets.

But always, head lowered. Stare fixed.

Never diverting his eyes from the cold gravestone and its haunting words.

He’s there every day. 7:25 a.m., like clockwork. As I drive past Our Lady of Perpetual Victory cemetery on my way to the office. Damn, we are creatures of habit, aren’t we?

He’s not an old man. Probably in his fifties. His suffering may make him appear older than his years.

Even from a distance, his pain is palpable. Some days when I get stuck at the traffic light, I watch him for two, three minutes. He is motionless. Frozen with disbelief at the reality he is struggling to digest. How many times can he read the words on that stone?

I try to surmise if the ground is newly disturbed. Is this a fresh grave? Is he still in the infancy of his despair? I can’t tell from the street. I’m tempted to come back later and visit the site and see for myself. Maybe I can Google the name on the marker and see if I can get a backstory. But I won’t. The feeling of violation stymies my curiosity. If I get any closer to him or his situation, I am stealing from him. I don’t have anything to offer him.

I wonder who lies beneath the stone. Who is he trying to revive with his sorrowful gaze? Maybe his beloved mother who was always there for him and without whom he feels lost and afraid. Maybe his father, who was his hero and always seemed invincible. Perhaps the love of his life. A wife he planned to grow old with. Or even a child. That is the worst pain of all. That is wrenching agony piled on top of unrelenting guilt.

Grief is an insidious bastard. With all due respect to Dr. Kubler-Ross, grief is anything but a linear progression. It feels more like a swarm of gnats you walk into and cannot get out of, bobbing, weaving, and frantically swinging your arms, trying to escape the horde. Emotions shove you to and fro as you struggle to find the eye of the storm, to garner even a few moments of calm. Grief is chaos.

But the man at the cemetery doesn’t appear to be flailing. He seems to be taking the blows and valiantly struggling to remain upright.

He looks so lonely. I suspect that even if he has family and friends nearby, he still feels utterly alone. Grief does that. It prevents you from seeing joy. Comfort may be close by, but despair is a blindfold, shielding one’s search for light.

I want to comfort him. Pull the car over, run up to him, and tell him it’s going to be ok. That over time, he will recover….kinda…..and get on with his life. But that might be a lie.

Most likely, away from this place, he appears somewhat normal. At least to strangers and acquaintances. He probably goes about his day, performs his job, takes care of all the mundane tasks, then lays his head down at night, only to lie awake, unable to calm his mind and end his waking nightmare. When morning comes, he heads off to this stark field to stare at the stonecutter’s artwork; cold and gray, signifying both life and death.

For now, all of his days start here; rolling, grassy hills filled with fading memories of loved ones. Dotted by visitors on a quest for something unknown. What are they looking for?

Peace?

Relief?

Quietude?

Answers?

Our thoughts are sometimes our biggest enemy. We can’t shut them off. We can’t distract them. Make it stop. Think of something else. It is relentless.

The worst part is we don’t have a cure. There isn't an elixir to soothe our heartache. Even the most brilliant minds cannot fathom “never again.”

I see him now as I sit at the light. I’m helpless to comfort him. I don’t have the words. I don’t have a magic hug or handshake that will chase away his despair.

I widen my gaze to see others scattered across this vast burial ground. They are all suffering, desperate, reminiscing, wondering, hoping…..praying.

But this man seems different. I can feel his sorrow through my windshield.

He looks lost. He looks hopeless.

That’s what he needs. Hope. That’s what we all need.

I pray he finds it. It probably won’t rise from that granite slab. Instead, it will slowly creep toward him, like a calming glacier undetectably sliding across the landscape.

One day he will decide to skip a day at the stone. Guilt will gnaw at him, but a hint of normalcy will tap him on the shoulder and provide him a moment of comfort.

Eventually, his visits will become fewer and farther between. Life’s minutiae will fight to occupy his mind and compete for his time.

Ultimately, he will be fine….or something resembling fine. The maelstrom will slow. The pain will soften. Leaves will gather on the stone, making it more difficult to read.