The Light Not Forgotten

My evening walk is later than usual today. I like to watch the bats swooping down after their meals, which reminds me that I haven’t had anything today. Nobody is out tonight, and the autumn air is redolent of vanilla and decay. As I walk along the sidewalk, the blades of dying grass are humming and whispering. This reassures me all is well these many years. I have never missed a day.

A bat free-falls through the air and veers off in another direction. The cicadas are still screaming at each other, drowning out the sound of the grass. I take a secluded walkway deep into the woods, inward and away from people. The air is heavy as my steps slow down by the gate to a cemetery. My feet sift through the sand down the dirt road, and I notice a light in the distance, something I don’t see often.

I open the creaky gate and close it behind me. The teeth of the lock try to bite my fingers, but I pull back this time. I turn back toward the calm garden of bones and focus on finding that light. The weeds are overgrown, and I hear them whisper, too. I choose a familiar path around the stones, one that lets me see all the names and dates. The dates are interesting; the latest date I’ve seen is 1965, fifty-eight years ago. No one uses this garden anymore; it’s mostly abandoned and forgotten.

To the left, I see the dim light around the far corner among a cluster of headstones. Fireflies abound but I know their glow is not the source of the light. I slither toward the edge of the cemetery to discover that the light is gone and has reappeared somewhere else. I want that light. I yearn for that light.

I look around. The sun has gone down, and the last rays of twilight are disappearing. The moon casts enough light for me to determine where the shadows lie. The headstones, even the broken and crooked ones, separate darkness from light. The trees are sweeping overhead, shh-shh-shh, waking barn owls and killdeer that hunt in the shortened night. I feel the sea fog creeping far inland, pulling at my skin and leaving wetness behind.

The intriguing light appears again. I want to reach it, hold it, make it part of me. I head toward the middle of the garden and find it glowing near a granite bench. As I get closer, the light diminishes and fades into the fog. I curse the air and howl into the darkness illumined by the moon. I cannot leave until I catch that light.

The cemetery is moving with shimmering sounds of crickets and frogs. I’ve never seen a visitor come to remember a loved one or leave flowers by a grave. This egregious slight can’t be explained by the simple passing of time. I’m sure there are family members still living that could come by even once a year. Of course, they never come at night. The cemetery can feel hostile when day is gone.

The centerpiece of the cemetery is a giant granite statue of a winged angel, arms outstretched toward the heavens. Her flowing gown, like Liberty herself, is draped neatly around her, belted with a granite rope. Her face, I’ve always thought, has a menacing look. Not one of sorrow or grief, but more of presage, a heavy foreboding of some kind. Since this is a cemetery, I think it is appropriate to call her the Weeping Angel.

There are no lamps, lights, or light sources within the confines of this cemetery. To find such an elusive thing, I must continue my search. Behind my Weeping Angel is a row of black marble gravestones, lined up perfectly, all from the same family. The end date is 1919, and I assume they died during the flu pandemic that year. The groundskeeper must be paid extra to keep those stones so pristine. The rest of the place seems neglected.

My eye catches a glimpse of the light again. In the oldest part of the cemetery, there are smaller stones, made of cheap cement or mortar, unevenly spaced along the hill. Most are covered with lichen or moss. Dating back to 1804, these markers are for the children, most lost to either smallpox or yellow fever. Sarah, 1801-1804; Rachel, 1802-1804; John, 1804-1805; Joseph, 1806-1806. That one didn’t make it through the year. The light is somewhere behind Sarah’s grave.

I move more slowly toward that area. The light is as enticing to me as water to the thirsty. I stop. Taking in my surroundings, I listen to the song of the stones but hear nothing. The light makes no sound no matter how sensitive my hearing is. I strain to hear the waves of light, and as I peer behind the stone, nothing but darkness again.

Darkness. Again.

I say goodbye to Sarah and continue my journey. The property is expansive, and I have a lot of ground to cover before I leave. I must find that light which has now moved to a different parcel, one where Civil War veterans rest. Small flags, faded by time and weather, stand at attention by the plots with metal foot markers. These men died fighting for the country they believed in, and this is their reward. A spot in the ground, forgotten in the background of the living.

I am sure to catch it this time. Bounding toward the plot, I reach out to grab its source, but it dissipates again. The light, the fog, the bodies all dissipate into nothingness. It is sheer madness that I should catch this light, but I press on. Looking down behind the stone, I find a shiny piece of metal, a ring of some sort. Most likely a memento left behind by a loved one. To what avail I don’t know. I pick it up and hold it in my hand. It vibrates with a different energy than that of the grass.

My Weeping Angel. I see the light behind her, and I feel spellbound to follow. I head toward the center of the cemetery, weaving my way around the solemn and silent graves. Standing in front of her, I look up at her arms of invitation, the curve of her face, her speckled gray countenance frozen in form. For many moments I stand there, watching her face search the sky. I place the ring at the pedestal as if I were presenting her with a gift. The light behind her surges, and I raise my arms up as well.

I feel infinity seeping into my being, stretching and contracting, moving within and without. The light dances in front of me, shattering the darkness with remarkable sound. Silence is consumed by the numbing light, and I can see clearly all the years of my life, flipping like pages in a book. My Angel’s eyes look down at me, and a barely perceptible nod is given. I am dissolving like the fog. I read the inscription on the pedestal, the once familiar dates, the intimate name, the well-known words that described us: “Loved, Cherished, Gone but not Forgotten. 1965.”