The Things We Carry
Things always start small.
A drop. A seed. A sprout. A moment.
Sometimes those tiny starts turn into something big, bold, and beautiful. Or big, bold, and burdensome. Sometimes all four all at once.
You can’t even see me anymore. I am betting you didn’t even notice me here. Your eyes probably went first to the stray ornament that was blown from the wreath leaning against the tree. I know you saw the cinder block, which then probably led you to look at the wreath from which that errant ball came.
But pan to the left, and you might notice me. Or at least what is left of me. The seed that was planted nearby my grave stone is the thing that has now torn me apart. It is another burden to drag even in death. The popular book “The Things They Carried” might have been about Vietnam, but before that battle I was crawling through trenches during World War 1. If the world only knew the things I carried.
Like many conflicts, WWI sprouted with a seedling of animosity into a global battle of wills and wits and wantonness. Millions died, and as I carried my fellow soldiers out of the trenches and watched them die, I wondered what it was all for? I’d heard all the talking points, read the historical takes when I got home - when I was lucky enough to come home - and still could never rationalize the loss.
I should be glad to be buried here in Lake Hill. The cemetery is close to my home, and when you look around the burial ground, you see many of my relatives here. Yet I seem to be the one lost to history. I remember when they planted the sapling. The gesture was lovely. To my kids, I was always a mighty oak, or so they told me. Hell, I am not an arborist, so this could be any tree, but it looks like a sturdy oak to me.
My daughter piled on the last bit of dirt, stomping on it to pack it in tight. The tree was over my left shoulder, and I get why my family wanted me to have some shade to rest in peace. But my rest, as my life, as been anything but peaceful. As trees are wont to do, this one grew and grew and grew. From an idea of peace to a reality of war.
Well, I might be dramatic with that last bit as someone who has seen actual war and all its atrocities. But dang, this tree has eclipsed me. Someone has to bend down to see the funeral home marker, so at least someone knows my name. They might not know anything about my life, and I am getting a bit tired of only hearing pitying remarks like, “Wow, what happened?” or “Can the stone be saved?”
No, no it cannot. And it’s not fair, because I was here first. Mother Earth always wins, though. The tree’s roots eventually sucked in my headstone, so it’s impossible to tell where the tree begins and I end. The tree represents life and growth, while my stone represents death and regression. My stone is physically being sucked under the ground inch by inch. If a strong Florida summer storm carries away the light tin funeral home marker, I have nothing left to show for my life. Nobody can tell my story if they don’t know I exist.
I carry that with me every day as I watch as the limbs continue their slow sprawl. The wreath was a nice gesture. One of my grandchildren left it during the Christmas season, but that was two years ago. It is fading and falling and flailing. I cannot say for sure who put the cinder block there, but it’s holding up the wreath, keeping it from sliding away in totality. Though as you no doubt noticed, pieces are able to escape.
Staring at the red ornament fading in the sun is a reminder that I, too, am disappearing. Slowly. Surely. But the erasure it all to common in this cemetery. I see it almost every day. Some of the families do a great job of visiting their loved ones. Heck, someone even has a chair and rake here to maintain a grave nearby mine. His entire gravesite is covered in photos and trinkets and memories. It doesn’t seem like he will be forgotten any time soon. There is someone to hold him, to carry him.
For me, the story is different. With my identity slowly being returned to the Earth, I need to hope my family carries on my legacy. That they talk about me. That my photo is still on the mantle. But my sinking grave is symbolic of the burdens I carried in life and now endure in death - all in the name of progress.
That tree was meant to protect. To shade. To hope. It was meant to grow, but like some things that are unchecked, it can grow into something dangerous. It always starts small.
