Who Was Cleaning My Mom’s Grave?
Many years back, when I was about 11 years old, I was playing football with friends (soccer if you’re reading in the States). It was a frenzied singles game where one goal took you through to the next round. The last person standing at the end of each round would be eliminated, and so on. I was hardly the best footballer, so I put my scoring first on this occasion down to sheer luck. With so many hyperactive boys taking part, it would be some time before the next round started, so I went to get myself some food and then found a vantage point where I could watch proceedings and unwisely stuff my face.
As soon as I‘d taken my place, my friend who was keeping goal sliced a kick which came in my direction and knocked me off the wall on which I was sitting, flinging me backwards and sending my food everywhere. Luckily for me, we were playing close to where I lived at the time, so I could run straight into the house.
My mom was having a catch-up with her friend Tina that day. Tina had brought her young son, Liam, who my mom babysat from time to time. My mom and Tina both snapped into action, calling for an ambulance after sensing I was in trouble. In the end, impatience and fear took over, and Tina drove me to hospital, stopping off along the way so I could throw up on the roadside. When we arrived I was told I had suffered a concussion and would need to stay overnight. It was a horrible, punishing night. My main memory the next day is an unmoving eye on the entrance to the ward, waiting for mom to come and get me.
I lost my mom in 2002. My grandmother retired from work and took in me and my siblings, meaning we didn’t have to go into foster care or leave the area. The ties I had with many of my mom’s friends, including Tina, gradually dissolved over time. Plenty of familiar faces remained present, to varying degrees, especially some of my mom’s friends who’d known her since childhood, meaning they knew my grandmother too, so could stay connected to us in some way. But mostly, people drifted off the scene, the world continued to turn and life went on.
I moved away to university in Yorkshire in 2007 and returned to Birmingham four years later to complete a postgraduate degree, persuading my grandmother to let me live back home for that period. In early 2013, formal education finally over, I relocated to London to take up a new job. When I first moved away to university, I would eat into my meagre student finances to make regular trips back home, not wanting to lose the link. A little more comfortable by 2013, thankfully, I know I’d do the same from London. In the words of the American fireside poet Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., “Where we love is home, home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” I would be living somewhere else, but I would never truly leave.
In August 2013 I was back visiting. It felt like a good time to go to the cemetery to see my mom. People have their own unique perceptions of going to the cemetery, how often they go, whether they go with someone or on their own, what they do when they’re there, and so on. Some take cleaning gear and a fresh bunch of flowers whenever they pay respects their loved one. I tended to go on my own, for conversations and catch-ups. My mom’s grave was always in good shape, and I had no cause to question how. I know my grandmother made her own visits, and how she did it was up to her. I didn’t need to enquire. They’re curious places, cemeteries. They can be a sanctuary, yet a cold proposition. A memorial, yet a wretched reminder. Over the years you get to know faces. You marvel at the expansion of graves since your loved one’s funeral, stretching into the distance. You even feel like you get to know the people buried nearby.
I could find my mom’s spot blindfolded. I’ve done the walk hundreds of times. So when, on this visit in 2013, I saw someone I didn’t recognise attending my mom’s plot, I was confused and hostile, and defensive. Who is this and why are they cleaning my mom’s headstone? I continued my approach and before I could begin my interrogating I was disarmed by the young man who spotted me and called me by my name. He said he was Liam, Tina’s son. It had been years since I last saw him, but I remembered him. He told me that he still lived in the area, that he’d never forgotten my mom, that he and his mom had been visiting her grave for as long as it had been there and every now and then he would clean it up.
Admittedly, I was disappointed — but in myself. I hadn’t made anywhere near as much effort to maintain the plot. For years I’d paid my respects regularly, without fail, but wasn’t responsible for keeping my mom’s spot in such a nice condition. I’d presumed it was my grandmother all along, but now I discovered she wasn’t the only one. But when shared, grief illuminates like nothing else. How could I not be moved by what I had just seen and not known for so long? How did we manage to not cross paths all this time? I stayed to talk with Liam for a while. We exchanged numbers and went our separate ways. The feelings I had walking home are hard to describe — shock, consternation, disbelief, happiness. Naturally, the first thing I did was tweet about it and spent the afternoon reading responses to the story. When I was next back in Birmingham I met up with Tina and Liam and spent time reminiscing with them about old times — including my accident. In some ways, it felt like I’d made new friends, an addition to my life I didn’t know I needed. I’d always had fond memories of Tina and had never forgotten how she rushed me to hospital when I was scared about what might happen to me. But it was so long ago, and so much had happened in our lives.
Grief is a process, one that can go on for years. Even though many had passed when I saw Tina and Liam, and my life was in a good place, I knew how much of blessing all this was. I was reminded of long-forgotten memories and was told new stories about my mom. Tina said she was happy to have seen Beverley’s son all grown up. I’m pleased to say I have managed to stay in touch with them. Liam no longer lives in Birmingham, so I’ve inherited cleaning duties for whenever I’m back home visiting the cemetery. But I’m mightily glad I went that day.
