I don’t believe in ghosts, not really, I don’t think.
Today was probably one of the last warm days of autumn, one
of those fragrant days with blue skies and orange pumpkins on green grass. The
leaves swirled in sunlit hues of butternut and maize.
I wanted to see Jackson Cemetery again because I want to photograph it through each season. Last time it was a steaming summer afternoon,
screeching with cicadas in the trees. Every time I come here I get lost, as if the spot is in a mysterious time warp. Today I ended up searching half an hour along the curving country roads until finally finding the hidden cemetery. It's as if a person has to prove herself to come here.
But it's worth it. I told you that I don’t believe in ghosts,
but this place has a feeling to it. There was a quietness this afternoon, like
the silence that fills the fading echoes of a tumult of drama. The quietness
channeled me to a new sound, the loud crackling of leaves underfoot. Once I
started walking, the sweet scent of autumn embraced me as the sun reached down
through the branches in long rays, spotlighting the worn gray headstones. Some were broken and tilted at odd angles. I
came upon several stones and markers I hadn't noticed the first time. I
don’t know how I could have missed them this past summer, but I did. They’d stayed in the shadows the first time and were just now revealing
themselves to me.
Usually I’m nervous when I’m alone outside, but not this afternoon. Walking
along the tree line, stepping along the irregular ground of the hillocks, I
felt almost protected, almost welcomed. Although I do not believe in ghosts, I
do like to let myself feel what there is to feel – you may be too young to remember
Skip Wilson’s TV show in which he dressed as a character named Geraldine, urging people loudly, “Don’t fight the feelin’!”
I was surprised to discover several stones made of polished and engraved granite, proof of love spanning decades. I found myself greeting each person aloud, making a polite comment or two, then moving farther through the blowing leaves.
I took lots of pictures, although the camera couldn't capture the images of the people back in time that had gathered around each gravestone,
tears glinting on their brown cheeks. Through the wind I could almost hear conversation and sermon and
song. I wished for a metal detector, not to find treasure, because I’d already
found it, but to make visible the bits of history I knew lay out of reach under the
thick leaves and compacted earth.
You can’t really say, “Take care!” to people in the ground,
but I let them know that I enjoyed the privilege of visiting their special
place, and promised to come back again, likely in the snow next time. And I
will.
It’s time. Passed time … past time.
