If We Meet in the Cemetery

A poem about grief and the ways we carry on

Photo by Jill Dimond on Unsplash

Tomorrow is my Geegee’s yahrzeit¹. She died in 2018, which feels like forever ago, but I still think about her all the time. Tonight, my dad and I lit a special yahrzeit candle in her honor. It will burn for twenty-six hours, so every time I see it tomorrow, I’ll remember her.

This poem is for Geegee and for anyone who is mourning. I hope it makes you think of your loved ones. I hope it brings you comfort.

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IF WE MEET IN THE CEMETERY

If I see you in the cemetery,
I won’t tell you I’m sorry. But
I will hold your hand 
if you want me to. I’ll lend you
my life for an afternoon
as you give some of yours
to the dead.

Don’t give away too much. The dead
don’t need you anyway. They lie there
in the ground, breaking down, until
they build themselves back up again. The dead
are in the trees, giving themselves shade. The dead
are in the bees, pollinating and producing honey
so sweet you can taste their memory
on your tongue, coating you in a slow warmth
usually reserved for summer afternoons. The dead
know they’re good for the soil, feeding the earth
and scattering themselves across the universe. The dead
know they’re still alive.

If I see you in the cemetery,
I won’t tell you not to cry. Crying
pulls the loss from your soul. You’ll feel
lighter when you’re finished. Besides,
salt makes everything better. It cuts
the bitterness and makes it bearable.
It removes rust from neglected things.
Salt forces you to feel the pain, but it
knits you back together in the end, just long enough
for something else to rip you apart.

If you see me in the cemetery,
don’t leave me flowers. Flowers die.
There is enough death here. Leave me
a stone, one smoothed down by water
and worried thumbs. Or find one sharp and jagged
like your anguish. Hold it so tightly that
it’s the only thing you feel. Then
let it go. Let me watch after it for you.
When you visit, you can see how
the wind and the rain have tempered it. You can see
how time softens all things.

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WEEKEND POTPOURRI:

• Currently on repeat:

• The Book-Object, “Considering the Bookshelf” from Zona Motel (I think Geegee would have liked this one)

• A(nother) poem:

THE WINDOW

By Rumi

Your body is away from me
but there is a window open
from my heart to yours.

From this window, like the moon
I keep sending news secretly.

1. Literally “anniversary” in Yiddish. The word is used among Ashkenazi Jews to mark the anniversary of someone’s death.