Place of names

Memorial Day--a time to visit graves: the graves of servicemen in uniform arrays, each with small flag flapping; the graves of family members--siblings, parents, grandparents. This person and that left our afternoon cookout pleading an obligation to stop by the cemetery. There, the stones with names of those who fought; there, the stones with names of those dear to us. Names, a place of names, so many names, sometimes eroded and hard to read but of those who were before us or once with us.

As I sit writing this in my house, I can see the Mt Hope cemetery across the road and through the trees, the new section opened not so long ago but now full. My friends abutting would watch long corteges of dark vehicles, crowds of people, loud singing and mourning, colorful bouquets and other displays left behind--sometimes too painful to endure.

Usually the cemetery is empty and quiet. The dog walkers stay near the open field where are the unmarked graves of the poor. I like to walk past the rocky outcrop, the assortment of obelisks, the crypts and mausoleums, the family plots with tiny stairs up to a tall, ornate stone on which the names and dates of father, wife, children who died young are carved, with other stones with other childrens' names flanking left and right. I admire the statuary, mostly of women looking forward sadly but bravely. The lawns, the groves of trees: it's like my backyard.

Cars go by in the distance, but inside there is stillness, especially at night and in the moonlight. Watching my moonshadow stretch before me down the road between the lines of monuments, I feel kinship with those who once walked between henge stones, up to barrow entrances, into the place of the old ones.

I think of the names on the plaques in Harvard's Memorial Hall, two wars worth of names in gold leaf on the wall under the Great Dome at MIT, the names inscribed on polished granite on the Commonwealth Mall of the firemen who died in the Hotel Vendome fire, the names on the facade of the Public Library of scholars and inventors...so many, once here, no longer.

It's easy to privilege this moment, but really this is only the current now; former nows, nows yet to come, have equal weight if we consult those who did vote or will vote in their nows to start families, go to war, perhaps both. Perhaps that's the hardest thing of all, to remind ourselves of the urgency that drove the lives who receive quiet mention in this timeless place.

Our stories this afternoon were funny, touching, startling, interesting; the food good; the company pleasant. The dead had  gatherings as nice in their time. Just to say.