Decoration at Cross Roads Cemetery

Dec 30, 2013 | Southern Verse

[title subtitle=”fiction Ashton Fonville”]3rd Place Adult Winner[/title]

The graves were decorated nicely this year, only one new one that I noticed.

I rebelled by wearing shorts to decoration—a sin only forgiven when I promised to wear an ankle length dress next year. My oversized turquoise shirt flapped in the slightly chilly breeze; this was the only Decoration, that I remember, when the weather was chilly. Usually it was hot as the dickens, and I was suffering in a skirt deemed appropriate by my Pentecostal mama, my paternal grandmother. I walked around, smiling and laughing with the mothers that were my age, the ones who took a different path than mine. My best friend from high school was there; she transferred into the Villines’ family shortly after her high school graduation. The once incredible athlete was now dressed in an ankle length, brown dress with white polka dots and was holding a two-year-old on her hip while a four-year-old stood beside her, hiding his face in her matronly dress. We had nothing in common anymore, but I was thankful for the conversation because it kept me away from the grave I least wanted to see.

Eventually, after being summoned by someone who knew my parents and had to impart the annoying cliché saying, “Well, my goodness, I remember when you were this big,” I found myself near the grave. I refused to look at it, instead of busying myself with my cousin’s baby, who was running around the graves shooting people with his new toy pistol. He ran across the new grave and my eyes caught sight of the saying that was etched into the bottom, centered below his name, birthdate, and death date.

You are loved beyond words and missed beyond measure.

Tears filled my eyes as memories flooded my mind, the first being raspberry picking. Living off the land is something that my grandparents took seriously; they were children during the Depression and that sense of poverty stayed with them even after they had a good sum of money in their numerous accounts. They always put out an unbelievably large garden and would nearly kill themselves picking, weeding, and hoeing all summer long. Wild raspberry picking was a tradition that we shared every single June. My brother, Papa, and I would load up on Papa’s four-wheeler shortly after Mama set off for her evening walk to the Cross place. When we caught up to her, we would drive slowly until we reached the first raspberry patch. Then my brother, Keeton, and I would hop off and pick berries until our buckets were overflowing, our hands and arms were sticky, and our lips were pink with raspberry juice. Then we would get back on our four-wheeler and hit the next patch.

The biggest raspberry patch was down a slight hill, a mountain in my child-like mind. At the top of the hill, Papa would put the four-wheeler into neutral. Once he reached his Ash tree, his starting point, he would switch the four-wheeler off and let go of the brakes. Trees whirled into a blur as my hair whipped around my face. My brother and I screamed every time, which only added to the excitement. At the bottom of the hill, Papa would clutch his stomach and laugh while Keeton and I claimed that we had never gone down the hill any faster.

I blinked and was back at the cemetery, at our family’s Decoration. All around were cousins of varying ages, talking and laughing, just as they had done in years past and just as they would in years to come. My brother gave me the signal that he was ready to go, and we started back to his truck. We drove to my mama’s house for our usual Sunday dinner, another tradition from years past.

The past is not only a memory or a nice story told at bedtime; it is black and white pictures on the wall to remind me that I got my dark eyes and eyebrows from my great grandmother. It is my mama shaking her head and warning me to never marry a Davidson because they have a drinking streak in that family. It is the warm, wonderful feeling that encompasses that old, cramped house at Christmas time. It is me staring at the new, black grave and wishing he was still here.

Do South Magazine

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