shewasavisitor

So I went to this cemetery. It was a long haul! A bus that services the cities north of Yonkers. I got off in Hartsdale. Far. And the cemetery is a walk away even from the bus stop. And I had just run a marathon. It was a pilgrimage. I went to the office and presented my list of people to the secretary. She printed a map and gave order of who to see based on the assumption that I was driving. When I said I was on foot, the directions and arrangement changed and I lost track of who was where. So I set out a little clueless but certain that I would see everyone. The walk was pleasant in the morning sun. Towards the first stop, I walked over a pile of leaves that were being blown together by some caretakers. I felt that leaves for some reason would play a small part in my day, but that was a vague inkling of a thought. I went to the vicinity of the first spot on the map. Every grave in this place is the same: small, square plates on the ground, all the same size and shape. No order, except that they are all in rows. I didn’t really know who I was looking for, and read a few as I walked along. A particular spot didn’t look like the others; it appeared as though it was a sink-hole with a bunch of leaves that had gotten caught and overlooked by the caretakers. For the sake of curiosity, I felt compelled to investigate and I shoved away a few of the leaves, thinking that I would discover not a grave but a drain in the grass. It was Thelonious Monk! I cried. For joy, for humanity, and for where jazz has taken me.