We are in a quiet place for our morning walk about
Landscaped trees and lawn in the slanted sun
Shadows cast by polished stones in rows
Cut granite markers inscribed with surnames.
Cemetery thoughts occupy me in my musing as we walk
Where people unknown to me have been boxed under
And yet every body buried here is my close relative
Whose lives were fundamentally the same as mine.
We are visiting here just north of 13 Mile Road
Where every grave dates from the last century
When the Detroit car factories had their heyday
When the future was an interstate highway.
Many of the graves are marked with Masonic symbols
Leading me to imagine what it would look like
If all the script on all the stones were unintelligible
And all the remains here were nameless bones.
You tell me you are thinking how odd it will seem
To some future archaeologist who will unearth them
Trying to understand the strange practice of burial
Taking good land for no good reason.
This place will soon contain only forgotten names
Witness to a host of anonymous life stories
Reminding me that I am already almost anonymous
Having a very common name invisible to search engines.
Our steps cover ground known to you since childhood
Being here close to the house your Aunt Joan still lives in
Shared with your grandmother being two working women
That house full of memories is our destination today.
Your spry Aunt Joan who lives independently regales us
With stories and more stories of the times of her life
Of all the family members you knew growing up there
Passing on this oral history of generations past.
Saying she’s distributing her belongings before she’s gone
Asking us if we want to take her teacup collection
Asking us if we want to take her teacup collection
Giving away her prized crystal ware and cut glass
Cleaning out her things happy to know we have them.
The dead are dispossessed with their last breath
Passing on everything material to the living
Taking whatever secrets with them to the grave
Leaving us to keep their memories in our thoughts.
