Sarina Greene
On a sunny day in Brooklyn, a friend and I got lost trying to find each other in the old cemetery. He got off the train at the Prospect side of Greenwood while I got off at Sunset Park. An hour went by and, still, our two souls were trying to find one other. We were just close enough to miss each other by the divide of a hill, or a plaque, or a statue of a man neither of us knew. During this my friend texted asking why I took him to a cemetery. The real answer was that we’ve been friends for too long, and he doesn’t know how deeply I feel about this place. But I just texted, “I don’t know, I like it here.”
This isn’t your ordinary cemetery, it’s a tourist attraction. A National Historic Landmark of America as one of the first rural cemeteries. Visitors often go to see the graves of rich, famous people and civil war veterans, or enjoy sitting by the water, home to flocks of scary geese. I’ve even taken Instagram photos for other friends under the archway close to the entrance. But my true calling here is to write in my journal next to the spirits.
My friend and I agreed to keep walking hoping we would run into each other. My phone was close to dying on ten percent, and the hills elongated at the sound of my frustration. There were no squirrels or animals in general, other than birds or ants that crawled on my fingers. And the sun that existed outside the cemetery was hidden by nature as if within its own universe. A little boneyard land of tranquility, a monumental secret garden with roses and robins, doors that had knobs resembling cursive writing, plenty of vines, and graves with carvings to paint portraits of people. I wanted to breathe in the fumes of those who were gone as if they were deceased yesterday. But many of them aren’t that fresh.
I didn’t think this plan through. I had already passed by several cars inside the wide roads of this massive cemetery before I thought to take a picture to see if my friend saw them on his end. He texted back that we must have passed each other again because that same car drove by him. He told me to stop moving, so he could find me, so I did. I found a small pond smack in the middle of the cemetery to rest by. I laid down on the grass, picking apart the spines of scattered leaves and lost in joyful thoughts regarding the many things I love about the cemetery.
My favorite tombstone reads the family name, “Zollikofter.” They bought a secluded section of land to hold the family. Buried there include Oscar F. Zollikofter, his wife Emily Zollikofter, and whom I assume to be their children, all having little plaques around the same space. The big tombstone centerpiece has a carving of a vine that stretches across the gray stone. As beautiful as the vine is, that isn’t why it’s my favorite. This family waited for each other to be buried together because their love is eternal. Perhaps the dead we love are not dead, but sleeping, waiting to be reunited with the rest of the family. Maybe the true test of life is preparing us to be able to perform the ultimate act of love, that is to wait. And that’s exactly what my friend and I have been doing, waiting for each other. I’ve never been religious, but this is the one thing I get to believe in.
I guess the very thing that makes cemeteries depressing for others, makes them bright for me. This is where both life and death can peacefully coexist and communicate. Through love, grief, solace, comfortability, and picnicking (which may or may not be allowed), I can lay here and appreciate the people who’ve existed to help build the world before us. I started to imagine myself sleeping in a tomb, just waiting for a woman like me to call for a conversation. I could guide the future poets while I wait for my love.
I started throwing sticks into the pond to see how strong my arm muscles were. The first branch hit a tree. The second branch made the water ripple, but continued to float next to the friendly white-feathered duck who lived here. The third branch I threw hit a grave.
I awkwardly laughed out loud and prayed an entity wouldn’t be angry with me. An elderly woman sneered as she walked by. Patrol cars intimidate by driving in circles, making sure I wasn’t doing anything incriminating to the land. I dropped until my face touched grass tips, and my greasy cheeks itched. Anything to avoid the thought of being arrested for defacing a grave. Suddenly, I felt the presence of a figure hovering over me, but I didn’t budge. There was swearing but my face was still buried. I heard a man hate me for an unknown reason. It was probably the stick. This wasn’t a good look for someone considering becoming a witch. The muffled swearing grew louder, until it became yelling, and shouting of my name. I raised my buried head and took a peek at the person. And it was just my friend.
He finally found me by stalking my location. I jokingly said I made him walk miles on purpose. He was not amused. It was now 3:00 pm, which was an hour after our intended meet time. It didn’t leave us that much time to catch up considering we are struggling college students with mounds of homework due soon. And for the rest of the day, I don’t think my friend was too happy with me, but he stayed anyway. He asked why we were in a cemetery again. To him it was depressing, foreshadowing our inevitable death. And I said that logic makes it feel like home.
Perhaps it was a poor decision to bring my friend to a cemetery as a hangout spot. I can’t imagine someone else trying to have a coherent conversation with me in my personal oasis. I dream out loud here. Our comical conversations about frazzled abominable professors who rap profanity became muffled. Selective hearing focuses on the dead people. And overall we had a nice time being together in a non-school setting for once, but I couldn’t shake the grip of my dream. Sometimes, I wonder if I am the only woman dreaming. And I’ve always wondered if I could hide inside one of the tombs until dawn.
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