I spent some time at Soul Sister's house Friday evening. We had eaten pizza, chicken wings, and bread sticks. Her daughter had a friend staying with them, so I had put them to work tagging and bagging Avon books for distribution. They actually made a game out of it, so at least they weren't too bored with the task. Around 11:30, Soul Sister was getting sleepy, so I left her place to go home.
The first couple of miles seemed like an endless row of sandy dirt road lined with tall, narrow pine trees piercing the dark night sky. My truck's headlights pushed the darkness back and illuminated the road like spotlights on a stage. The sky was overcast, so I was unable to see any stars in the sky. I rode with my window down so I could listen to the frogs croak their conversations to other frogs. Heavy rain seems to make them more vocal.
Once I got to the paved street leading to Hoboken, I set the cruise control and observed what little I could see of my surroundings. With the exception of the occasional house with outside lights and/or a light pole, the road was dark. It was nearly midnight and almost everyone in the area was home and off the road. All I could see was the glow of the dashboard instruments in my truck and the illuminated pavement a few feet in front of me.
Hoboken is an extremely small town. It was refreshing to see a Shell station open at this time of night. Almost every other business in the downtown area was closed and dark. Turning onto US 82 toward Waycross, I noticed other vehicles in the distance going to their various destinations. It was the first sign of life I had witnessed since I left Soul Sister's place.
Six miles later, I approached Miles Still Road on the right. Normally, this would be the shortest route to take to go home from Hoboken. However, this road had an additional significance for me: Thomas Cemetery was less than a mile away. Thomas Cemetery was Mom's new home since she died last January. I've never been able to drive past the cemetery without making a stop, and tonight would be no exception. I turned onto the road, crossed the railroad tracks, and proceeded to slowly drive toward the cemetery.
Thomas Cemetery was located across the street from New Hope Advent Christian church. The church was well-lit on the outside, thanks to the installation of a couple of light poles with the extra-bright halogen floodlights. In contrast, the cemetery across the street was dark. As I pulled up to the cemetery, my headlights could only shine a limited range upon the property. Even though there is a wide enough space between the rows of graves, there were no easily-marked paths for people to drive on. I had to drive the truck very slowly to avoid driving over a grave site. I slowly approached the row my mother was buried in. When I got as close as I could, I turned off my headlights and shut off the truck.
I surveyed my surroundings. The cemetery had been in existence since the 1800's. There was a small patch of graves to the far right of me of people who had been buried before the twentieth century. If someone were to examine this area, he would see that there are patches of sunken ground. Most people buried during that time were either wrapped in cloth or buried in wooden caskets. As time went on, decomposition and disintegration cause the ground directly above to shift and cave in. Most of the sites now are extended family members buried in concrete vaults and marked with thicker, sturdier headstones. However, I suspect there are some gravesites that were forgotten about and their grave markers were either destroyed or never existed. I try to keep this in mind whenever I walk around the property.
I looked to my left and examined Mom's grave. The silk flowers generously given to us by dear friends were still up and surrounding the cement block covering her underground vault. Can't believe it's been seven months since she passed away. I started thinking about how she didn't like for me to be out alone after dark. I honestly listened to see if I could hear her turning over in her grave because her baby daughter was sitting all alone in a cemetery at around midnight for no good reason.
Looking around and listening to the quiet of the night, I made sure that no one was around. I was experiencing a first: I had never been to a cemetery after dark alone. Growing up, I was easily spooked by skeletons, dead people, and ghosts. The very idea of being in a graveyard was creepy enough in the daytime, much less at night. It's funny how as we get older, we do things as adults that we'd never consider doing when were younger.
I turned to her grave again and started talking to Mom. I had been haunted by her in my dreams lately. I felt the need to tell her where I stood with them. In life, Mom was a high-strung obsessive-compulsive with a need to be in control. In our household, if Mom wasn't happy, no one was happy. Even after she died, she was still trying to tell me what to do in my dreams. Tears were rolling down my cheeks when I finished getting things off my chest and reasserting my life since her passing. I told her I loved her, wiped the tears from my eyes, and started up the truck. Not wanting to risk turning around with limited lighting, I drove to the back of the cemetery and followed the perimeter of the property back toward the road.
My mind was still on the significance of my actions when I arrived at the house five minutes later. To most, it would seem silly that going to a cemetery around midnight would be considered "a significant event," in someone's life. One day, I'll be able to delve into the realms of my mother's life and her influence on me.
