The First & Last Time
Photo-etched grave markers scare me.
Have you ever seen a photorealistic etching on a grave marker? I find them jarring. When I visit a graveyard, I expect Crosses, Crescents & Stars of David. I anticipate reading, “Beloved mother, daughter, sister,” etc. As I walk the grounds, I know I’ll see old flowers, new roses, soft grass and shady trees. Rows of headstones become rows of flat grave markers and then out of nowhere…BADABOOM! PHOTOREALISTIC ETCHING! SEE THE DEAD AS THE LIVED! It’s never something I am prepared for.
Before I go further, I need to qualify my own personal sentiments:
I would never pass judgment on how a family mourns and/or buries their dead. I don’t know how to handle photo-etched gravemarkers on a personal level, but I fully support every family who chooses one. More than that, I am glad this option is available. Grief is a bitch. Whatever helps balm this wound, save human sacrifice,* is good in my opinion. *Apologies to any Viking traditionalist out there, but adding deaths to death will not help you grieve.
I believe this with all my heart, but it does not change my dislike of photo-etched tombstones.
I remember the first time I saw one. I remember everything about it: the spring evening, the birds’ carefree singing, the sun’s parting light and the name on the marker. I will not share that last bit, but I will tell you how I found it. How I found her.
What brought me to her.
My grandmother had passed away while on hospice care. It was hard to know the specific cause of death. She had congestive heart failure and advanced Alzheimer’s. She died in our home. My dad and uncles selected a simple marker for her - no photo in case you were wondering.
We didn’t have a big funeral, just family at the graveside. After saying our peace and praying over the grave we all meandered aimlessly around the cemetery for a while. I struck out in my own direction but I didn’t make it far. 12 feet from my grandmother’s grave site, etched in photorealistic detail, was my 6th-grade crush, dead at 19.
P3 What little we shared.
All these years later, she’s the only girl from middle school I can name. She was also that one girl I never figured out how to talk to, which in retrospect made my crush even worse. Or maybe it made it better? I did so much pining as a kid that now I wonder if I didn’t actually relish the experience. She was quiet & I was a dork. I guess I never trusted myself enough to try to interact. I only ever saw her a couple of times after 8th grade. We went to different highschools. Her family moved at one point, so I didn’t see her in youth group anymore. We did go to the same summer camp one year which was cool. I still couldn’t work up the nerve to talk to her, but I bought the group picture and hung it in my room. I knew exactly where she stood in the crowd. I bumped into her again at some friend-of-a-friend’s highschool graduation party. We were each invited by different mutuals of the graduate whom I didn’t even know very well. We came as close to talking here as we ever would. No objective third party would characterize what we shared as an actual conversation, though we did stand in the same half-circle of kids for about 18 minutes before her ride left.
The First Time I Saw One Was Last Time I Saw Her
If I knew that was the last time I’d see her, would I have put myself out there? Would I have taken my shot? Shit. Just knowing I’d never see her again might have let just enough air out of my anxiety balloon to allow me to be a comfortable version of myself. Our final interaction could have been pleasantly memorable. Maybe, but probably not. I was still a huge dork.
I always assumed she was doing the same kind things I was doing. & Yeah, if you were wondering, this girl I never spoke to once, would come to mind from time to time. When she did, I would imagine her doing whatever adult shit I had going on - except she wasn’t. She didn’t do any adult shit past the age of 19. My imagination fabricated lived-in scenarios that she never got the opportunity to inhabit.
As I looked down at her marker, the image of her shining eyes looked up into mine, first glassy, now tearing.
I can’t tell you what I felt seeing my first photo-etched grave marker.
I just know that the first time I saw one, was the last time I saw her.
I’ll catch ya next month on the 3rd,
-JT⚡
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