We met in a cemetery.
I was alive, she was dead.
I saw her name printed on the gravestone in front of me: Hannah Georgia Patterson. Aged 52 when she died, and the words on her headstone, “loving mother and dearest wife,” were the only things I knew about her.
As with any grave.
But what drew my attention to this particular gravestone, other than the beautiful, vivid flowers ensconced around the stone, was the weeping boy beside it.
We met in a cemetery.
We were both very much alive.
As I walked down the dirt path through the cemetery that day, I felt a sense of calm and peace that I knew I needed. Life can get that way sometimes—stressful, evoking your blood to its boiling point, pushing you to your limit—and the cemetery counteracts that for me.
I breathed in the sweet air; some fragrant flower happened to be at its best, and the sun shined just right through the leaves of the trees, as if they were stained glass.
The green glow of leaves gleamed down upon the boy as I approached.
The first thing I liked about him was the way he didn’t try to hide his tears from me, although I was a complete stranger. The second was the ingenious way he had laid out the flowers. They were patterned blue, lavender, yellow, pink, and stacked so they formed a sort of topless pyramid around the base of the stone.
I don’t know why I sat down by him. Most times, I would leave someone to honor their loved ones in peace. But I sat down, right there in the grass next to him, and that was that.
And, before either of us had said anything, I started to cry, too.
It’s a funny thing, when you cry alongside someone. You both share a feeling of deep sorrow, emotion, compassion. To cry with someone is to let them see into your heart, into your feelings, your mind. Nothing is hidden, you just cry.
After awhile, he told me his name was Nolen Patterson.
It was his mother who was buried there. She had died of cancer two months ago. He missed her very much.
He told me she was a great mother. She always put him and his brothers first. She packed their lunches, told them stories, helped them with homework, watched them grow up. She enjoyed traveling, rain walks, the ocean, wildlife, and painting.
And this is the first connection I felt to her. Painting.
I studied the grave with great consideration, then reached into my bag.
The paints emerged: brown, black, gold, indigo, crimson, emerald. They squeezed onto my palette and expanded at the tip of my wet brush. Onto the paper they washed, the vibrant colors, calmly painting the flowers, the stone, the words…
We all came from different angles of humanity, different times, different planes of existence even. And we met here, turned to the same page, and developed an understanding so simply complex, it was almost surreal.
We met in a cemetery.
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