Graveyard in Limay

Dear Bob,

My first reaction to the cemetery was jealousy. You are buried in such an ugly place. The graveyard in San Juan de Limay is bright. Painted and overgrown. I think, “The forest eats itself and lives forever.” Barbara Kingsolver said that in a book I only read half of.  All that ate you was well-manicured grass. I remember the first time we went back to North Vancouver to see you.   In my mind there were going to be large gravestones sticking out from the grass. Yours would read, triumphantly, “Bob.” I also remember we bought roses. I wanted to bring a red one but mum said we had to bring white ones because they didn’t have thorns. I didn’t know if that was for the sake of my own hands or symbolism.

When we got there all the graves were flat against the grass. You didn’t even have one yet, just a neon orange pylon to mark the place. I was disappointed. Mum explained they were flat to make it easier for lawnmowers. It was a matter of convenience.

Today we found the graves by accident trying to kill time before lunch. Hundreds of thick cement crosses painted all variations of blue, turquoise and purple. Hidden under ivy or plastic flowers. A remarkable number of graves from the 1970’s and 80’s.

We sit on the edge of the yard watching a man lead his horse through the river. Sitting deliberately far enough away from each other to have private moments for people who shouldn’t be dead. We both cry and sit there for a long while.

The a bird shits on my shoulder and I accidentally smear it all over myself. Making a mess of my and overalls.

You still have a sense of humour, don’t you?