You Were Here and it Mattered.

5 stages of grief, and Gordon had witnessed them all. Though, the distinction between “witness” and “experience” was a stark one, for his days were so formulaic, he almost always knew exactly which emotions he’d feel in a day, and at what moments he would feel them. Thus far in his life, they’d yet to include grief. 

7:07 am - Agitated. The feeling of his previously warm toes against the cold wood floor, as he vacates his bed.

7:56 am - Content. Tightened belt around his work cargoes. Compression socks wound tightly around the soles of his feet. Secured brimmer hat strategically placed on his head. Morning sun on his face as he steps out the front door. 

8:12 am - Satisfied. The humming of the machine that punches his time card and initiates his work day. 

8:34 am - Dreadful. A shed full of gardening tools breathing down his neck, and overgrown shrubbery from a long weekend of rain. 

9:11 am - Dismayed. Watching as a family of ants make a home inside the crack of a gravestone he had decorated in pesticides only 3 short days ago. 

10:32 am - Lonely. 

2:17 pm - Lonely. 

3:47 pm - Lonely. 

5:35 pm - Lonely. 

7:21pm - Lonely. 

10:00 pm - Exhausted. 

It’s just that the work of a cemetery groundskeeper was the work of a sympathizer, and Gordon simply was not one. 2 weeks after he’d been hired, he found himself in his supervisor's office, being scolded for trimming the weeds around a gravestone that was actively being visited by a weeping old lady. It took much conversation for Gordon to understand why this behavior was frowned upon. He just kept repeating,”Isn’t that what you hired me to do?” which struck a nerve with the supervisor, who doubled down on his anger, and threatened to dock his pay. Though, Gordon didn’t mean to be rude. He simply meant to understand. 

It was what he was hired to do, certainly. But what Gordon neglected to recognize was the ways in which certain emotions were supposed to be met. A tear should be met with a comforting hand on the shoulder. A sob should be met with a great deal of distance. A smile should always be returned. These things, he was troubled to find, came to others like second nature, whereas he often found himself having to dig through an endless stream of mental notes, to remember how an emotion was to be responded to. A griever from across the way would occasionally acknowledge him, as he trimmed hedges, or blew leaves, and Gordon would freeze, as if becoming suddenly aware that others could see him. Then he’d dig through his mental notes. Oh, he’s looking at me. Is he angry? Wait no, he’s smiling. What do I do again? Oh, right. Smile back. 

Denial. 

During his weed trimming scold, Gordon’s supervisor had told him, ”If you’re ever wondering how you should handle a situation like that, just put yourself in their shoes.” Though Gordon's supervisor failed to observe that from 10:32am until bedtime, Gordon’s sole emotion was loneliness. And how was Gordon to understand the experience of grief if his life had never been graced with a soul he feared losing? 

Gordon lived alone. Ate alone. Slept alone. He refused to comprehend the value of a shared experience. He often tended to memorials with 2 names on one stone, and wondered how someone could be so tied to another, in life, that they had to seek comfort in the idea that their bodies would decay next to one another, because being apart for any length of time, even in death, was too hard to bear. That’s not to say he disapproved. He actually found it quite touching. But, it troubled him to envy something he claimed he knew nothing of. From 10:32 until bedtime, it’s all he thought of. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely. Lonely…

He figured that if he could not experience it, if he could not “put himself in their shoes,” that he should study it. Add to his mental notes. Broaden his understanding of emotion. So he took to imitation. 

On Gordon’s third week on the job, he witnessed a young boy sitting in front of a memorial adorned in soccer paraphernalia and trophies. He had seen that one the day before, and decided it seemed wasteful to decorate a grave in such a way. Flowers, he understood. Maybe even balloons he could get on board with, but trophies don’t decompose, or float away, and Gordon was troubled knowing he’d need to find an appropriate way and time to discard of such decoration. The young boy repeatedly dialed a number on a small device, let it ring until the voicemail, and then frustratedly dialed again. Gordon peered around a large tree stump as the boy huffed and puffed between calls, until finally, the boy looked up and noticed Gordon staring. He was quick to seem occupied, but it was too late for that. 

“Hey, you,” the boy shouted from across the way. Gordon tried to assess what emotion he was expressing. 

“Me?” Gordon replied, politely. 

“Yeah. Do you get good cell service in here?” Gordon was embarrassed to admit he didn’t know the answer to the boy’s question. There was no one who needed to get a hold of him as urgently as this. But the boy didn’t want to hear that. So Gordon opted for a white lie. 

“It’s usually pretty good.” He paused to assess the boy’s emotion and then wearily added, “Are you trying to get ahold of someone?” 

“My friend, Greg. He’s just not answering,” the boy replied with a sense of defeat. Only, Gordon recognized the name Greg as the one that was plastered across the gravestone that rested at the boy’s feet. 

Now, why would the boy be trying to contact his, very apparently deceased friend? 

This, Gordon learned, was Denial. 

The next day, Gordon arrived for his shift early. He passed up the office, where his time card was waiting to be punched, and made his way to a grave he particularly liked. It was small, and understated. The name was in italicized print at the top of the stone, followed by a quote that read, ”And so long as there is grief, I will endure it. Because it means that you were here, and that it mattered.” He knelt down in front of it and dusted off the letters with a gloved finger– it was starting to get chilly, and he was reminded that it was almost time to bring his rake out of retirement. He closed his eyes and mustered up a version of his life in which the woman in the grave at his knees, was as important to him as Greg was to the young boy. One where she kissed him good morning before brushing her teeth, because she couldn’t possibly wait. One where she baked and left her dishes in the sink for two days, which would irritate him until he remembered that she was careful to add a dash of nutmeg, because she knew how much he liked it. The very thought warmed him right down to his toes, but the warmth quickly fled, as he peered down at the grave and let reality set in. Then, he bent his fingers into a fist, leaving his thumb and pinky sticking up, and with his other hand, pretended to dial. He held his fingers to his ear and waited. No answer. Gordon huffed and dialed again. 

“I just spoke to her. I know she’s around somewhere.” Gordon said, under his breath. He dialed once more. And then again.

“No, this can’t be. She’ll call me back.” Gordon abandoned his finger phone and contemplated. It was frustrating to wish for something he knew he wouldn’t receive. He considered that if there were ever anything for the boy to deny, it’d ought to be Greg’s existence in his life as a whole. It’d be much less disappointing to pretend Greg never impacted his life than it would be to deny that he was dead, and still be wishing for a phone call. He decided if he ever saw the boy again, he’d share his revelation. But the boy never returned. 

Anger. 

A few short days after his run in with Denial, Gordon’s lunch break was cut short by the sound of two men casting verbal daggers at one another. Gordon fought the urge to step beyond the bench where he often took his lunch, and abandon his sandwich to investigate. Starkly frowned upon by his supervisor, who would often remind him– “people don’t wish to be perceived while they’re grieving.”  But the urge got the best of him, as the shouts boomed in the distance. He set his sandwich on the bench beside him, and carefully stepped over a few leaves, as to avoid a harsh crunch. The words became clearer as he approached the scene. 

“...Alone! Do you have any idea what that must’ve been like for her?”

“The doctor told me to leave–”

“And you just thought, ‘Sure, my mother is taking her last few breaths at this very moment, but I could use a coffee right about now?’”

“Why am I the only one being blamed? Where were you?”

“It was your shift.”

“So you need a “shift” to justify visiting your mother in the hospital?” 

“I had been there for 48 hours, I needed a shower for god’s sake. I didn’t know you needed babysitting while I was gone–” 

“You made the DNR decision. If it weren’t for you, she might still be here.” The second brother hurled a bouquet of flowers at the first brother's feet, and set off in a heated march out of the cemetery grounds. Gordon blinked, and his eyes stung out of dryness. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring. The first brother knelt down to gather the mess of petals at his feet, and began to sob as he did so. Gordon remembered what his supervisor had taught him- A sob should be met with a great deal of distance. Though, against his better judgement, Gordon approached the brother. Comfort was not his forte, but maintenance was. And this was a mess he knew he could clean. 

Gordon did not say a word, merely knelt down next to the brother, and took what was left of the bouquet from his shaking hands. The brother’s sobs stifled only slightly, as Gordon took each flower individually, and broke off the length of the stem, leaving only a few inches of body attached to the head. The brother, shocked to have been approached in the first place, was unsure of how to respond, so he simply watched, as Gordon took the shortened stems and poked them into the soft soil of the grass around the gravestone. It had been a dewy morning, and Gordon knew that the flowers would sink nicely into the ground. He lined the stone, so that the grave was bordered by the remaining flowers, and then sprinkled the loose petals across the top. The brother was stunned, as he wiped a final tear off his cheek. 

“Thanks, man,” the brother projected raspily. He cleared the mucus from his throat as Gordon nodded politely, as if to say, “You’re welcome, man.” 

“Sorry about the mess,” the brother pleaded, “Anger’s just in the driver’s seat these days. I’m sure you understand.” And to Gordon’s surprise, he really did understand. This was a stage of grief that made a lot of sense to him. Assigning blame made death feel comprehensible. None of that, “everything happens for a reason,” bullshit. It was easier to just give it a reason, and be angry at that reason. 

So the next morning, Gordon showed up early for his shift, bouquet of flowers in hand, and visited his favorite grave. “And so long as there is grief, I will endure it. Because it means that you were here, and that it mattered.” And once again, he mustered up that version of his life in which the woman that baked him nutmeg cookies and kissed him with morning breath, rode her bike to work every morning without a helmet. A version in which Gordon would secure her backpack straps onto her shoulders each day and tell her, Be careful, every time she left the house, out of fear that the day he forgot to tell her to be careful would be the day she forgot to be careful. 

Gordon, towering over the grave, let his breathing intensify at the thought. 

“I told you,” Gordon whispered. “I told you,” He stated. “I told you.” He pleaded. “I told you.” He shouted. “I told you, I told you, I told you!” He insisted, as he smashed the bouquet onto the floor in a culmination of emotion. 

He took a deep breath. Then he shook his head in disapproval, abandoning the mess at his feet. No one came to clean it for him. 

Bargaining.

When anger finally left the driver’s seat, Gordon was greeted, after a work day, by a pamphlet stuck to his windshield. The pamphlet urged him to attend the Catholic church around the corner, but Gordon wasn’t sure if he believed in God. There was a grave he often observed an old woman kneeling in front of. She never spoke, or cried, just closed her eyes with her hands pressed together, and breathed. After one particular visit, Gordon shuffled over to the grave she frequented, and took in the sight. 2 indentations in the grass, where her knees pressed in. A fresh batch of lilies. And a prayer card, propped against the stone– Psalm 147:3 He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. 

And yet, this woman had been visiting the cemetery everyday, to no end, in search of a remedy for her wound. He wondered, if God claims to heal wounds and broken hearts, why he hadn’t done it yet. Though, the next time the old woman visited, Gordon considered that perhaps this was her tradeoff. Perhaps she was healed, but in order to be, she had promised God 2 hours of silent, uninterrupted prayer, every single day. Maybe those 2 hours acted as treatment– as if bathed in anesthesia, she closed her eyes, as God spent the time tending to her wounds. Maybe she knew something he didn’t. So this time, while she prayed, Gordon knelt down 6 graves over, where his favorite stone lay– “And so long as there is grief, I will endure it. Because it means that you were here, and that it mattered.” — dug his knees in, pressed his hands together, closed his eyes, and breathed. 

He mustered up the version of his life in which the woman in the grave at his knees had meant as much to him as the praying woman’s husband had meant to her. Only this time, a pit formed in his stomach, for this was now his third time remembering the woman and her nutmeg cookies and her morning kisses and her bike rides to work, and Gordon knew that the moment he got comfortable in the memory, it’d be ripped from him. He almost didn’t care to think of her, because it was more painful to think of her and be reminded of her absence, than to simply not think of her at all. Perhaps this was the type of wound the old woman was attempting to heal. So he dug his knees in deep, shook off the memory, and prayed. 

Hey, God. I hear you’re making deals with grievers. Gordon spoke loudly in his mind. I know we haven’t spent much time together over the years. But I will dedicate myself and 2 hours of uninterrupted, silent prayer, every single day, if you could…. Gordon considered what it was he wanted to ask for. Sure, deliverance from his pain would be nice, but from what he knew of God, Gordon knew he had much more to offer. He’d seen it once before, and figured if God were real, he’d be able to do it again. So he opted for— if you could bring her back. 

The wind blew hard at that moment. Gordon had imagined this was God laughing so hard at his request that it shook the trees. He opened his eyes, and wiped a tear from the edge of his left eye. Gordon couldn’t tell whether he’d been crying or if the tear came from the harshness of the wind, but when the blur faded from his eyes, he noticed a prayer card propped against the stone at his knees– the one he’d seen at the old woman’s grave the day before.  

He looked over to find that the old woman was gone. But the pit in his stomach remained.

Depression.

Before Gordon took up cemetery groundskeeping, he owned a flower shop, just moments from the burial ground. A lot of the same grievers he observed in the cemetery, were the ones that frequented his flower shop, though none of them recognized him the way he recognized them, because the thought of having to communicate with someone in such pain, was scary to Gordon. Having to communicate, in general, was scary to him, but having the right words in a time of need was not Gordon’s specialty. He hired a staff to tend to the customers while, from his hiding spot in the back room, he trimmed stems and fluffed leaves, and delicately wrapped flowers in paper wrappings and tied ribbon around the stems to keep them bound together. Just him and the company of his flowers.

Until one day, a woman entered during the store’s lunch hours – he’d forgotten to lock the door – and requested a bouquet of Azaleas. The staff had all gone to the restaurant around the corner, and Gordon was left, sitting at the counter, picking at his bagged lunch. No one was here to assist the woman in her Azalea order, so he informed her, “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am, the store is on a lunch break.” 

“Well, you’re here,” She said gently. 

If Gordon had known in that moment what this woman would mean to him, he would have shuffled her inside, and given her all the Azaleas the store had to offer. He would have knelt down at that moment and asked her to marry him. And she of course, would have said no, but he would explain to her that soon, they would fall in love. And they would have a love that felt like the kind of warmth that melted chocolate off a summer Drumstick. It would be soft, and strange, and new, and she would become the first person in Gordon’s life that made him feel like communicating with others wasn’t a chore. And they would buy a house, around the corner from the shop. And they’d share meals and sleep and love, and Gordon would never have to feel lonely again, because he knew he had her. 

If Gordon had known in that moment what this woman would mean to him, he would’ve sold his flower shop to buy her a car, and he would’ve buckled her seatbelt for her every morning. He would’ve done her dishes without complaint, enjoyed her nutmeg cookies, and kissed her with morning breath. 

Now, all that was left, was this stone. With her name, and a quote he wasn’t even sure he believed in anymore. All that was left was this stone. And denial. And anger. And bargaining. And depression. The deepest of sorts. The kind that swallows you whole, then spits you out, limp and wet. The kind that shrivels your bones. The kind that collapses on top of you until all that’s left to do is sob. 

Acceptance.

He sobbed. He sobbed so uncontrollably, he was sure his lungs would collapse, until he felt a large hand on his shoulder. He looked up, to find the brother from Anger. The one whose mother’s grave he’d decorated with flower scraps just weeks before. The brother bent down and dusted off the letters on the stone. Then he took the bouquet in his hands, and placed it gently on top.

“I brought these for Mom, but I think they look better here.” Azaleas. Gordon stifles a cry. 

“What was she like?” The brother asked. 

And so long as there is grief, I will endure it. Because it means that you were here, and that it mattered.