The flowers had been wrapped in brown paper to shield them from the cold, and I picked out a small bunch of white roses. The woman accepted my money gratefully and smiled, showing a crooked grin.
“Bless you, child,” she said, and turned away, humming. I inhaled the delicate scent of the roses and walked on toward the entrance to the cemetery. Cypress trees lined the edges of the graveyard behind wrought iron fence that kept souls inside and vandals out. The metal bracing of the entryway arched over my head as I entered.
Passing through the gates, I heard nothing but the soft whistling of the wind through the cypress trees. I walked forward quietly, and snowflakes fell all around but never seemed to land on me. Rows of stone slabs marked the buried. Carved angels and wreaths stood eroded at their edges, proving true the saying that nothing lives forever, despite the hopes of those who commissioned the monuments that stood above their tombs. Many of the gravestones had lost their lettering already to time and weather, some slabs cracked from being frozen and thawed over however many number of years they had been there.
Ahead of the entrance, a number of private family plots clustered together, the tombs topped with huge statues. Famous people, I thought, or rich. I skirted the edge of the plots but as I walked by, my coat snagged on a low iron gate into one of the plots. I stooped down to free the fabric, and the name on the grave made my breath stop for just an instant.
Herceg.
Was this where Eliot’s wife was buried? I looked up at the plot, my coat now freed from its snag. Several graves organized themselves into rows, the stones above them carved ornately with scrollwork. The iron gate creaked at my knees as I pushed it open and walked in. I looked around guiltily, as though I was an invader.
I didn’t belong here. It felt wrong to be here without Eliot, to stand in this sacred spot. I stepped away but my eye caught on a small statue of an angel, its arms thrown up in the air as though dancing. I paused to look and saw the name carved into the top of the stone. Clare Herceg. I brushed the snow off of the rest of the stone. A few lines of Hungarian were written underneath, a prayer or a poem. The date of death was ten years ago.
It must be her. I looked around again, feeling like somebody was watching me from afar, but there was nobody else in the cemetery that I could see. I turned to leave, but then turned back. My fingers trembled as I pulled at the ribbon on the bouquet of white roses. I tugged the bouquet in half and laid the flowers down at the front of the grave. Whoever Clare was, Eliot had loved her and she had loved him. I felt a connection with her, standing there in the drifting snowflakes and looking down on her grave.
Then I left the plot, not looking back over my shoulder. My breath already was coming faster as I moved toward the part of the cemetery where my mother would be buried. It didn’t look like any caretakers were around, so I would have to find her grave myself. I walked on, my toes beginning to freeze as my feet marked a trail towards the places where snow had drifted into piles on the paths through the cemetery.
My hand hung at my side, white fingers clutching the remaining bouquet of roses. Row on row and still nowhere near the end. The trails here ran crooked at the edges, overrun by brown and deadened weeds no hands had torn out in the springtime. My mother had been laid there, among the paupers and the unknown, the homeless and the kinless. I ached with guilt for not having come earlier, but the anger at my father inside me had altogether disappeared. Emptiness took its place, a quiet space in my mind amid the grief threatening to flood my senses.
The last row. I turned to the right and saw the slab, knowing it was hers before I read the inscription. The stone was whiter, newer, and the front glowed brighter in the daylight than any other around it. Dark patches of lichen crept up the uneven, pockmarked sides of the white slab, spiders crawling over stone. I knelt down and brushed the frost off of the front inscription.
Katalin Tomlin
1961-1992
Just her name and those dates. Nothing that mentioned she had been a loving wife and mother. Nothing about her, not a “Rest in Peace” or a “Forever in Our Hearts.” All of my vague memories, all of her life, reduced down to a name and number. Why hadn’t my grandmother’s family done something for her? It felt wrong.
“Mom,” I whispered.
When I touched the cold marble, it was as though the barricade that I had built up over the years, the dam that I had made, cracked and crumbled, swept away in a fast-moving river that was fed by some secret underground source. I broke down and wept: my face grew warm, then hot, then burning. The wind picked up and whistled among the cypress trees at the perimeter, the cold murmurings of a faraway tribunal.