I enjoy visiting cemeteries. It's a strange hobby, I realize. It's not something I do often, but when I'm near one, I enjoy walking around, wondering what these people's lives were like: Who did they love? Who loved them? Did they accomplish what they hoped to accomplish in life? What were their last thoughts before they died?
I especially enjoy visiting the oldest graves. Sometimes I'll crouch down and read the chipped engravings. "What year was that? What was their name?" I carefully wipe away the dirt on the engraved lettering. I think about the day the person died. I wonder what the relatives said, I wonder what friends whispered in quiet moments, I wonder who was never the same afterward … I wonder.
And I always wonder if anyone ever visits these old places. Some of the graves memorialize people who died so long ago that they've been completely forgotten by everyone. Even the people who loved them are now dead. No one visits; no one brings flowers or flags or remembers the important dates in these people's lives. Generations later, it's as if they had never lived.
I remember at least two occasions when my wife and I spent time in cemeteries together. One of those times was a few months before Sara left. The day was overcast and cold—the kind of day when you stuff your hands deep into your pockets and your shoulder muscles tense involuntarily.
On this day we drove down narrow cemetery roads together, talking about death. I asked Sara whether she would want to be buried or cremated. The question hung in the air. I could tell that she didn't want to answer. But when I asked the question, I remember thinking that I should listen carefully: What if Sara dies before I do?
My perspective has changed drastically since then. If she died today, would I even be invited to the funeral? Even if she died, would that be the official end to our relationship? Our relationship seems to go on and on, no matter what I do. Our souls seem forever entangled despite the months that pass, despite the changes in our lives.
She is still a part of me, and I am part of her.
A friend of mine who has been divorced said, "I don't think you ever really get over it." We wondered why that was; we wondered why the world reacts so differently when someone physically dies. When someone dies, friends and family bring casseroles; they travel from afar to attend funeral services. They send cards and notes of encouragement and make phone calls. They join you at the cemetery and mourn. Their very presence brings healing.
So why is it that when a marriage dies, people do nothing?
When my marriage died, I was left on a ledge with little to no support. Friends and family didn't know what to say, so they often said nothing. No one visited; no one sent cards.
But when someone dies, there is comfort for those who feel the loss. There is a tangible, physical reminder of the loss. There is a body. There is a tombstone. There are ashes, rituals, prayers, community. It's obvious that I will never get these things; it's obvious I will never have the same comfort that widows receive.
But what about community? What about the group of people who sat at my wedding—the people who agreed to support my marriage? Where are they now? I still see their faces, smiling and laughing. I see them with glasses of champagne. I see them handing me wrapped gifts—pots and pans, pillows, other things that are now shoved to the back of cupboards and closets. Things that I would gladly trade for a hug or a phone call.
Today, these wedding guests are only a memory. Today, they are like passengers on the Titanic, celebrating while a disaster that they know nothing about is on its way. I wish my wedding guests were around to support my marriage, but communities have become fragmented. The people who attended my wedding live in dozens of cities around the country, and most of them never knew there were problems in my marriage until they heard about my divorce.
