Meditations in a Graveyard

My feet paced conscientiously along the worn gravel paths, bearing a gait of solemn respect. I was as unsure of my direction as I was about the feelings one is supposed to have in such a place. Having passed by twice on the ferry the drizzly day before, I had decided to explore what lay beyond the walls of the island graveyard. I read that Napoleon, while his army occupied Venice, had ordered the city to move its deceased to a nearby island. One might admire the progressive efforts to bring hygiene to the city and keep death away from the doorsteps of its denizens; one might also laugh at the folly of trying to keep death behind the four walls of the cemetery. We bury death six feet below us, but it's never deep enough. The kerbstones, the headstones, the gates, and the elevated footpaths were crumbling, slowly, yet inevitably. The fate of the silent occupants was the same, regardless of whether their means were abundant or scarce. I saw plain walls with graves as big letterboxes, which lay in contrast to the ornate memorials scattered around the place. The corpses, I was told, are exhumed from the graves after a certain period of time and returned to their descendants, such is the shortage of space. This rule doesn't apply to the cemetery's more famous inhabtants, such as Ezra Pound and Igor Stravinsky, whose graves I sought out amongst the rows and rows of headstones.

Isola di San Michele

I was struck by one memorial in particular: an elaborate, unheimlich, sculpted parlour scene coming out of a wall. I approached the sculpture and stood closely to the main character. "Hate that", I whispered gently in her ear. She didn't smile (and she never will again). After a long meander, I came across one of the older graves, wherein a soul had been at rest for decades. "Get up outta that", I jibed, "How much sleep does lazybones need?"

Those struck down in their youth are the hardest to come to terms with, but I wasn't short of consolatory words. "Better luck next time," I whispered to one unbearably sad memorial; "Too bad" and "What a pity" were uttered close to the deaf ears of the youthful dead. "I bet you didn't think it would be that bad when your parents said you were grounded," I quipped, trying to cheer one of them up. I got no response - typical teenager. I got an equally unimpressed result from another line of graves, who I asked if they were having a lie-in. "The silent treatment," I hissed scornfully. "How mature." I sulked about the labyrinthine paths, until I wasn't sure where the exit was. After a few minutes, it began to get a little frustrating. I lit a candle in the cemetery chapel I stumbled across, meditated a little in the dark, and stepped outside again. The view of rows upon rows of final resting places evoked resignation in my heart, and I sighed, "C'est la mort." "These things happen," I announced clearly within earshot of the resting dead. Any silent resentment on their part brushed off me, as I have no sympathy for people living such charmed lives of relaxation. After further confusion as to where I was going, even with the strategy of walking along the walls until the exit appeared, I began to panic, and the dead told me silently (and vengefully) that there was no way out. "You of all people know that isn't true," I replied. "Perhaps for you," I grinned, "but not yet for me."

I eventually arrived at the exit. I turned on my heal and, suppressing a smile, asked them all if they had tried not being dead. A funeral procession came through the entrance, as I made my way out. I mused, salivating with the glee of my cleverness, that there was no exit here after all, only a way in. As I made a quick trip to the toilets, I thought about following the procession and asking if the recently deceased was going to be long in there. I doubt the family would have minded - their English probably wasn't all that good. I waited for the ferry back to the mainland like a hero of antiquity on the River Styx. I felt anxious, as I still had a few clever quips left, and I could get through a few of them in the ten minutes I had to spare. I wanted to tell them that I was much like them about thirty years ago, but I gave it up. Of course, I knew, they could easily retort that I'd be like them once again very soon. They say a lot for people who can't speak. The walls of the cemetery were slowly disintegrating with every lap of the waves against their base. They could be twenty metres thick and they couldn't keep death inside. The ferry came and took me away from coffin-like memories of being trapped in that place. Yet, I was haunted by my experience. A twinge of regret ached in my heart. I had somehow managed not to find Ezra Pound's grave. Then I remembered that he's nobody's favourite writer anyway and enjoyed the rest of my holiday.

How the hell was I supposed to find this?