Cemetery Surprise - Place Prompt #6

Sunday, April 1, 2012 - 1:28 PM - 58 degrees - partly cloudy and warm with a soft wind

I dig my fingernails into the ground, cake the dirt beneath them. I pull up the plant, cut into the rind with those same nails, and peel to see what's beneath, peel again to see what's beneath that, keep peeling until the pulp of it, juicy and wet with a slight floral fragrance, makes mud of the soil at the tips of my fingers. This is how I discover the nature of Homewood Cemetery, like fruit in my hands.

Today, I want to revisit the first pond I found during my initial visit to the cemetery. Mainly I want to see the weeping willow again, thanks to a post by a fellow student which mentions their mythology. But it happens to be right beside the pond, and I know much will have changed between the cold, cloudy winter day on which I first saw it and today.

Movement to the left. There are bodies, two of them, with arched black necks and faces striped with white cheeks. Canadian geese-- I know them well from the flocks that hunker through the winter at the YMCA pond back home in South Carolina. I grin at the connection, feel as if I am an old friend to this place which now gives me little gems to spark my memories, good emotions. Homewood and I are more than acquaintances now, and we can have these private moments together. Homewood might have peeled some layers on me, too.

A splash. Something has glopped into the pond near my feet. I don't see it, but I notice the abundance of lily pads lazing on the water, sunning themselves beside the reflections of cottonball clouds and fresh trees. Were they here before? I don't remember them, though I'm sure they were. I wonder why I didn't make the connection between them and my horse pond in SC before. We have those, too.

As I stare at the wavy trees and shift the focus of my eyes from their reflection on the surface to the muddy browness beneath the pond, I see an orange fish flutter by. It looks like some sort of koi, and I wish I could jump in and take a picture. I imagine how the fish flies through the water, much like the grackles and robins which sprint from tree to tree above me. I hear their calls, bright, alert, confident.

A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. A ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat. There is a woodpecker somewhere in a section of trees farther down the lane from where I am by the pond. I think of tracking it down, wonder if it is a red-headed woodpecker like the ones back home. Everything reminds me of home today, and I realize it might be because this is my new home now. I know I will be here beyond graduation now, and perhaps these happy little connections whisper to me, "It's okay."

Before I can make the decision to go, though, something else catches my eye. Another kerplunk into the pond, and I see frog legs dart swiftly, stretched behind the thick body, beneath the lily pads.

I am making my way around the pond. There are two boys coming around the pond in the other direction, and once we are on the same side, they stop, staring into the thick of reeds at the back of the pond. I hear a rustle between the dry stalks and look as two turtles rush into the water. The boys laugh, and I wonder if they had anything to do with the hustle of the turtles. It annoys me, but I can't make assumptions. I walk closer to them and they take the hint, see my raised camera as if I'm waiting to take a picture but they are in the shot, and begin walking past me. They don't know I actually took a picture of them.

I rest at the edge of the pond where they had stood, see one of the turtles floating in the middle. The red and yellow stripes on the sides of its head are familiar. It's a red-eared slider, and again, I've seen plenty back home.

As I continue my slow meander around the pond, I pass the reeds, which still look sound, still sound decayed, hollow with the wind. They look like giant matchsticks with the fuzzy heads on their stalks, and I know they'd go up in flame quite readily, too.

On the other side of the pond, another red-eared slider. I sit on the edge of the pond in front of the weeping willow, which I've saved for last. Honeybees buzz around me, play tag with delicate white butterflies which land in the mud, seem to eat from it. I consider how this goopy brown substance as a background only makes their whiteness sparkle more.

And then the weeping willow. I duck beneath and between the strands of its branches, peer out to see what this tree sees everyday.

I peer at its gnarled trunk which only gives it more of an elderly, wise appearance.

Under the falling strands of the tree, it is quiet, shady. They seem to block out some of the harshness of reality-- the bright, the loud, the very realness of everything. Flies and gnats buzz, and it smells like a bouquet of flowers though none are near.

I decide to head back to the car after spending some time peeking at gravestones behind the flexible limbs. I walk up the hill, my visit complete. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an old drainpipe, red and crumbled. I can look up the pipe, and were I to walk up the hill a few steps, I could look down into the other half of it. I only notice it in passing, as it's one of those examples of decay I love-- these things stand out to me.

But then movement makes me stop. I saw something gray withdraw into it. I am sure it's some kind of bird; I see what must be fluffy gray down from a puffed, fat young bird. I see it again, but it looks more like a rabbit.

I wait, and then it pops out again. It's not a bird at all. It's a groundhog! I am excited because I've never seen one in real life and I am so close to this one (within a yard or two). We play hide-and-seek for several minutes. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. He pops his head out and stares at me, retreats back into the pipe. I take his picture each time, demanding that at least one turn out well.

I then leave him to his privacy and mosey up the hill, head home. I love this getting to know, this becoming acquainted, this dating of the cemetery. And now that I will stay here in Pittsburgh a while longer, I think I'm ready to call this a second home.