Wild thistle and purple loosestrife accent the edge of wilderness that borders the cemetery where my Dad’s ashes reside. It still holds true that I don’t quite feel my Dad’s presence at his final resting place, but there is one corner, at the bottom of the hill, anchored by a few ancient evergreens and a large poplar, where I sense his spirit. It would be more characteristic of him to watch quietly from a distance, his arms crossed and observing without comment or disturbance. This is also the prettiest part of the cemetery, far from the columbarium that actually contains him, far from the road where drivers unknowingly rush by such beauty. Invariably, I will stop the car at this space, and take a moment to walk around and see what is in bloom.
Earlier in the year, there were sweetly-scented wild roses. Gone to hips now, there was still some summer lingering in the heat and humidity – the bold color of thistle flowers echoed by the invasive loosestrife. Moreover, there was a stand of wild raspberries, their thorny branches barely dissuading whatever pulled most of the fruit from these little cradles.
I took a little more time on this day, walking further along the edge of where the manicured lawn ended and a bit of wilderness began. That little island of brush to the right in the photo below was surrounded by a path of mowed lawn, and I walked between the mounds of green. Within that island something rustled in the shadows. It sounded larger than a chipmunk or squirrel – I’m accustomed to their size and heft – and this was distinctly larger. It was substantial in the way it made movements and noise in the brush, and after I walked past it, as if sensing I wasn’t looking anymore, it made its move and bolted out of the island and into the wilderness, climbing up the tree before I could get a look at it. It had the speed of a squirrel, but I still don’t think that’s what it was. Scanning and searching the branches of the tree, I couldn’t find it. In a breeze, the undulating silvery undersides of leaves masked any movement I might find.
Regardless of what animal skittishly ran away, I was clearly not alone, and there was comfort in that – comfort in the mystery of life, and death. On the night that my Dad died, I remember seeing a number of rabbits along the way – at least nine or ten from our drive from Loudonville to Amsterdam – and it seemed like they were seeing him off. I’d never seen so many in a single night. My Dad always loved animals – all kinds – and it spoke to his genuine care for those who needed help in some way – the very tenet of what made a doctor a good doctor. Since the night he left, I’ve had several encounters with animals that made me believe there was more going on than what I once thought I understood or believed. On this day, feeling that I was still being watched by something in the trees, I embraced the mystery.
