I remembered the cemetery and parts of the journey there but little else and so our trip there was filled with wrong turns and a few "I don't remember this" exclamations. But eventually we found it, that nameless cemetery and found a plaque that gave it a name: Cimetière Miséricorde.
And here we wandered for more than 2 hours among the rows of tombs and gravestones while around us solemn French adults and bored-looking French children tended the tombs of their family and readjusted the mementos piled atop the granite surfaces. And there we stood with our cameras in hand - out of place amongst the others. Even the pie birds seemed to sense our difference and screamed at us from their perches atop crosses and on tree branches.
I could speak of the immensity of the place, but to be honest, I don't think my words could ever do it justice. It's hard to try to find words to explain death, only an abstract until it is a reality.
The tombs and graves were all in various states - some were pristine and well-tended while others were completely collapsed and broken. And yet even still, each bore the story of the person covered with effaced symbols and gaudy ornamentation. I stood for a while in front of the tomb of a past French general, a monstrosity of granite and oxidized copper tryi
ng to place what it was I felt.
It wasn't death, for I was still breathing. No, it was the realization that in looking at the tomb of this general with all its ornamentation of military pomp, I was also reading the story of his life. Strange to think that I know more about the dead man lying there than I do about the people I pass on the street every day here on my way to class. Strange, but not quite sad.
As we left the cemetery I wondered about those families I had seen there - the solemn adults and bored children. Did the adults only come to tend the graves out of duty and the knowledge that one day they, too, will lie there or do they indeed believe in resurrection? And the children. Would the children grow out of their bored faces and into the solemn faces of adults? Would they come and tend the graves of their ancestors as their parents had? Or would it all be forgotten?
There are some moments that I am glad I will be leaving in a few months. When I am gone, I will never have to see the answer to any of these questions. And for that I am infinitely grateful.
And here we wandered for more than 2 hours among the rows of tombs and gravestones while around us solemn French adults and bored-looking French children tended the tombs of their family and readjusted the mementos piled atop the granite surfaces. And there we stood with our cameras in hand - out of place amongst the others. Even the pie birds seemed to sense our difference and screamed at us from their perches atop crosses and on tree branches.
I could speak of the immensity of the place, but to be honest, I don't think my words could ever do it justice. It's hard to try to find words to explain death, only an abstract until it is a reality.
The tombs and graves were all in various states - some were pristine and well-tended while others were completely collapsed and broken. And yet even still, each bore the story of the person covered with effaced symbols and gaudy ornamentation. I stood for a while in front of the tomb of a past French general, a monstrosity of granite and oxidized copper tryi
ng to place what it was I felt.It wasn't death, for I was still breathing. No, it was the realization that in looking at the tomb of this general with all its ornamentation of military pomp, I was also reading the story of his life. Strange to think that I know more about the dead man lying there than I do about the people I pass on the street every day here on my way to class. Strange, but not quite sad.
As we left the cemetery I wondered about those families I had seen there - the solemn adults and bored children. Did the adults only come to tend the graves out of duty and the knowledge that one day they, too, will lie there or do they indeed believe in resurrection? And the children. Would the children grow out of their bored faces and into the solemn faces of adults? Would they come and tend the graves of their ancestors as their parents had? Or would it all be forgotten?
There are some moments that I am glad I will be leaving in a few months. When I am gone, I will never have to see the answer to any of these questions. And for that I am infinitely grateful.
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