Echo

I woke up at 11am and had 3 hours to kill before going to my physical therapy appointment for my back, so I went to visit the kids at Starbucks and to read. They were all going to Wango Tango so they were bouncing off the walls hyper (Calvin called and invited me a few minutes ago, but I can’t go. That was sweet of him though.). I read a few chapters of White Oleander—the 14 year old character was learning about the “power” of beauty and so she gave a guy a blowjob for a bag of weed, just to see how it felt. And it didn’t feel good. That kind of made me sad (that whole book makes me sad. It’s so damn honest). So I left and did what I usually do during times when I’m feeling a little bit lost—I drive without a destination, letting my internal radar guide me to where I need to be.

I ended up at Woodlawn Cemetary in Santa Monica. It’s this little cemetery from the 1800s that’s tucked in the middle of the concrete jungle with a Foster’s Freeze across the street. I drove by it and knew that was where I needed to be so I went in. It was peaceful inside and there were two other people there—a man standing still over a headstone with his head bowed, and an old woman with snow white hair walking with a sense of direction. I followed her, about fifty feet behind, wanting to see where she ended up. She paused occasionally to look up at the sky, her eyes so sad, then exited the cemetary through another gate.

I looked at some markers, thinking about who these people were and what their lives were like. I found a bench under a tree next to a “Loving Grandmother,” and sat quietly, with my eyes closed, feeling the energy around me. The energies of older cemeteries are not as strong and aggressive as those where the recently deceased are buried. I think, after a while, those who have passed on become less and less connected to this world, perhaps as those they left behind cross over as well.

I think that when I die, I don’t want people to bring me flowers. I want them to plant something near my grave, so that these flowers can grow and bloom and live. I want to be marked by a symbol of life, not to be honored with flowers that have been severed from their life force and sacrificed to my memory, in order to slowly die where I lay. I hope that in my lifetime, people will understand my dedication to life, and will honor me with life rather than sacrifices.

I think about how, Michael and I are like turtles without shells. We’re ultra-empaths, and we can feel people’s pain without them even realizing it themselves. We reach out with kindness because it’s the only way we know how to reach out. But man do we get burned. I have always made sure to protect Michael and to make him strong to face the world that is often so cruel because of its own self-loathing, because what he gives to this world, pure kindness and love, is something that the world needs but doesn’t always accept. But sometimes I get scared…who will look out for me?

I walked around some more, turning rightside flowers that had been tipped over by the wind and returning cards that had been blown away from their recipients. Sometimes it was hard to figure out who the cards belonged to, and I had to read them to figure it out. One in particular did not have a name, but was addressed to “Mom,” from a daughter who was still so sad over her mother’s death. She talked about how hard it was not to be able to mail her this card or to say the things she wanted to say to her, and how hard it was that this was the first Mother’s Day without her. She wished that she could call her up just to say how much she appreciated her and to say that she loved her, or to hear her mother say, “I love you.” I stood there reading this card, tears falling down my cheeks, feeling the pain of this woman, and how hard separation is. There was no name on the card and it had been blown onto the sidewalk. It was suddenly really important for me to return this card to the right person. I closed my eyes and prayed, silently, Please…I need your help. Please help me find you. I opened my eyes and walked to a grave about 15 feet away. It was somewhat fresh and had flowers next to it, as well as another card. Robin. Beloved Mother. She passed on earlier this year. I’m positive this was the woman this card belonged to; I put the card next to the flowers, making sure it was secured enough to not be blown away again.