indianapolis sunrise
Awhile back I spent a few nights in my hometown, Indianapolis. (Apologies to some of you I didn’t see…I always have to make hard choices, as I have friends on the eastside, westside and all around the town!) When in Indy, I always plan some time to visit my parents and grandparents in Crown Hill Cemetery, one of the largest and most beautiful cemeteries I know. My fraternal grandparents and great-grandparents are buried in the lush and shady lawns of the 555 acre cemetery itself. My parents and maternal grandparents are inurned in the imposing Community Mausoleum.
I have taken to talking to each of them when I visit. Inside the chapel of the mausoleum I actually pull up a chair and converse with my folks at some length. I know that they aren’t really there. But since no one in my family lives in Indianapolis anymore, it seems possible that I am the last person on earth who will make the trek to visit them. My children and grandchildren have no connection to the city, my cousins are spread far and wide, my sister is busy commuting between Grand Rapids and Chicago, so unless someone takes up the passion for genealogy, these final resting places may one day matter to no one.
In that somber frame of mind, I sit and talk and weep. I thank them and forgive them. I bring them up on all the news. I told great-grandfather Everett Wagner (who died 30 years before my birth) about my grandson named after him…wondering aloud if he ever imagined that one day a great, great, great grandson would inherit his name. Of course, he didn’t! Do any of us ever project our legacy THAT far into the future?! That would actually be pretty narcissistic.
As much as I have to say to all these ancestors, they never talk back. That is one of the benefits of the dead…they finally have to listen to you, and you always get the last word!
However, on this trip, I stayed in a downtown hotel. One morning as I sat down and worked on the poem “Turkey Run”, I wrestled with the idea that I might be airing too much of my parents’ dirty laundry. As I put the finishing touches on a draft of the poem and the blog essay that goes with it, I turned around and saw the dawn, glowing bright and golden; and the sun was rising right behind the City County Building where my mother worked as an Administrative Assistant in the Department of Housing and Urban Development fifty years ago. It was like she was speaking to me, telling me that all is finally and forever forgiven, all past hurts and hard feelings enveloped in the warm embrace of God’s golden arms. Where once my mother might have felt defensive and protective of her image, I sensed approval of my willingness to be honest and vulnerable about my past.
I believe that the dead carry no more grudges. I hope I’m right.
Love, Liz
My friend Theresa sent me this word of encouragement: “Psychosocial health is described as a complex interaction of your thoughts about and interpretations of the past and your history. Your Quotidian entry describes what your past means to you today. Thank you for sharing your life with loving transparency.” Thank YOU, Theresa.
