Just a little strange.
Yesterday we went to see Papo's grave. He was my great-grandfather, but I'd never met him. Before yesterday, I'd never even had a thought of him. But we went to see him, and there he was, dead and gone and in my head for the first time. They told me he died in a car accident in Mexico, but that he wasn't supposed to have been in Mexico and that they thought he was forced there on his way to Nevada. I tried to imagine it all- one minute he was taking a lunch break at a small diner, brooding over his sick brother (who was dying; Papo was on his way to visit him), and the next- how does a hijacking even happen? Is it really like what they show in the movies? Hijacked, hit, dead in Mexico. They had a hard time getting his body back. I can't really wrap my mind around it, even now. I guess death in general isn't supposed to be understandable. When we went to see his grave, I didn't know how to feel.
I've never seen a mausoleum before. In my town back home, we have this big, beautiful graveyard that just rolls on and on. Ancient oak trees throw shadows across the ground, and American flag miniatures and fresh flowers, real and fake, are strewn over markers new and old. It covers so much space, it was always easy to get lost in. I used to have picnics there. I used to imagine what it would be like to have someone there to visit. Morbid, yes. But also peaceful, in an eerie sort of way. There were tombstones large enough to climb up and sit on, and ones so old that the names were worn away. It was just a really lovely place, and maybe that's strange to think. But it was.
But Papo isn't buried in a graveyard like that. He's in a wall, just one little space in a beehive of bodies. I didn't know what to think. To walk in, and see...concrete, concrete and fake flowers and more concrete. Bodies cased in easily accessible boxes. Not so very different as being in the ground, I guess. But it seemed...less personal to me, somehow. More showy. That's probably ridiculous, it hardly matters where you are once you're dead, but it was just so strange. We walked in and were surrounded:
I guess I've just always operated under the impression that dead people are under you, not over your head. So I was overwhelmed with the newness of the place and the lack of emotion at the death of a grandfather that I'd never known. It was a numb feeling. Sad, as deaths usually are, but also vacant and unattached, as a stranger at a funeral. I was mad at myself for being more fascinated by the place than the person we were there to see, but you can't make yourself feel something that isn't there. Maybe I'm just lacking compassion.
In lighter news, we spent some time on the pier recently, which was beautiful:
And we met some seagulls. Those birds are so much fun, and so funny. I always imagine them to have some sort of sleazy New Jersey accent. They remind me of old, up-to-no-good men who beckon people into alleys, or start fights with people who look at them the wrong way. Not funny in real life, but funny on a bird.
Yes?