Snow Days in the Cemetery

I remember the snowy days of winter in the graveyard where we used to sled. The reverent hills, crowned with monuments to the fallen, rose like ornate thrones, flanked on all sides by more modest stones dedicated to those equally loved but of humbler means. Whether their memorials were resplendent or simple, it’s clear now, in their neglect, that the memory of those lying beneath has faded.

Below this solemn scene is where you and I would meet on those winter mornings. We were early adolescents, relieved for a day of responsibility by the cleansing magic of fresh snowfall, that frozen lace blanketing the drudgery of our ordinary routines. And it was here, in this unlikely refuge from the hardships of our lives, where we would sled and play.

A cemetery seems an improbable place for such juvenile joy, yet it sat conveniently between our two homes, an oasis from the unsafe neighborhoods that shaped us. We were two sons of single mothers doing everything they could in the finest accommodations they could manage, while we learned to temper our expectations of what kind of life it was realistic to dream of when no advantages paved the way.

But in the serenity of that quiet landscape, bordered by lives of every possible circumstance, there was a kind of equalizing. It was the perfect place to meet on those generous days of snowfall. The fresh powder muted the colors of the world and rendered every surface equal in its shared insulation. In that whitewashed peace, despite our differences in culture and complexion, you and I could enjoy the simple pleasure of childhood in equal measure.

We would find hidden islands exposed by winter’s lack of foliage, islands accessed only by glass-like, newly frozen bridges. There, in these temporary fortress sanctuaries, we would pull action figures from the pockets of our stuffing-lined, bubble-coated jackets and leave them as our own personal monuments to friendship, making pacts of eternal fraternity. Here we would lay on the soft, frosty blanket of fresh snow and contemplate the purpose of life. We would retell the sagas of how we escaped the dangerous situations that were common in the ghettos where we resided and discuss what it was like to seldom see our fathers. Did they love us, and if so, why were our visits so rare? On occasion, we would allow ourselves to cry.

And as the daylight thinned, the cemetery took on a strange kind of warmth, the kind found only in places where sorrow and innocence overlap. The snow softened every harsh edge, even the memories we didn’t yet know were heavy. We lingered there as long as the cold would permit, pretending the world outside the gates couldn’t touch us. In those moments we felt older than our years and yet impossibly young, believing that as long as we returned to this place, life couldn’t change too quickly. It was a fragile myth, but for a little while, it held.

We had no concept then that, just as the seemingly permanent drifts would soon melt away, these pure moments would not last forever. Life would pull us in two different directions, and the seemingly unbreakable bond that once wrapped our friendship as tightly as the heavy sweaters guarding our inner warmth would fray in only a few years.

Yet despite the distance between us and the choices that carried us into separate lives, I will always look back on those innocent days of leisure and restoration and remember the snow days when two best friends sledded in the cemetery at the base of so many memories.