I am sitting behind a church graveyard in a small village in France, a village that was rebuilt after the war. The bird songs decorate the general peace that grows here, covering the heartaches and tears that visit every life now and then.
The setting reminds me of a conversation I had with two elderly French mesdames not so long ago. Seated side-by-side on a bench outside their residence, one obviously enjoyed the dancing aromas while the other glared at the shadows and the insects. Needing to rest my wear feet, I approached with a soft smile and bid them "Bonjour, Mesdames." Soon I was seated cross-legged before them on the grassy carpet, our conversation half lost in the tangle of breeze that drifted past.
When I say "our" conversation, I refer to my exchange with the lady on my right, the one whose face glowed with the embers of a life well-lived. The other apparently ignored us, her frown sculpted permanently where she had set it. Silence. Or at least, until it happened.
What happened? I am not sure I know. But all of a sudden, the lady to my left cracked her plaster mask and, with no less frown, began speaking, almost continuing the conversation that had recently died out into a pleasant calm. Her words took no note of us, softly and sadly rippling down like a steam crashing into rocks on the side of a mountain. But she knew we were listening.
Evidently, painful years ago, the lady had been a young girl, recently moved into a new town with her sister and their family, a town in which they were lost, not speaking the local language. One fateful day, the sisters and their beloved mother took a train to the nearest city; their father stayed behind, needing to bring in the harvest. Less than an hour into their trip, she had become angry with her mother; no longer could she even recall the reason. Impulsively, she stomped to the back of the train, hardly arriving their before she was flung against the wall. The train had derailed after hitting a tractor! Screeches and cries disappeared into black smoke and sobs. Naturally, she sought her mother's protective arms, but, alas, she was pinned beneath some hulk of metal.
She tried so hard to forget the nightmare that followed that she succeeded in large part and can no longer describe the events that followed. Somehow, she ended up in a hospital bed, her grieving father next to her, beginning a recovery that never healed the deep wound inside, left there when her mother was wrenched from her life. Her father was not a bad man, but he never clearly conveyed his love through his rough exterior. Her mother, on the other hand, seemed to her an angel, seemed to her perfect, seemed to her the original definition of mother.
They carried her to the funeral of her mother and sister, and thus began her weekly tradition. As soon as she could again walk, she would hike up the rise to the cloistered churchyard, bringing flowers she carefully gathered along the way. Every Sunday she came, tending the grave site. Were their no flowers, she would decorated it in any way she could, with ribbons and lace or icicles or buttons and beads. She would cry, or occasionally chuckle in memories that eventually led to more sobs, as she relived the cherished moments of their life that ended in her mother's death.
As they had only just relocated to the town, they knew no one well. As she lay recovering in the home of a gentle neighbor, her father ranged the countryside, unwilling to accept his bride's death. He was gone three month, searching every village, but loosing hope everyday. He finally returned to find his daughter suffering, as he was, from their traumatic loss.
Her father remarried, driving a wedge into their already aloof rapport. Now she had no one, and she had refused to learn the language, instead choosing to seclude herself from the threatening world around her. The turning seasons found her in the same routine. Each day she would say prayers for the deceased, each Sunday she trekked to the tombstone, easily remarked among those left untended.
If someone had asked, she would have told them she was happy; she thought she was. She knew no different. She told herself that everyone carries such burdens, and her sister, and especially her mother, deserved it. They would have done the same for her. She carried her chin set proudly. She would have been beautiful if the look in her eye had not been so dull and exhausted. She would have been pleasant company if she ever allowed her emotions out of the box in which she had locked them. But instead of courting a handsome young man, she appeased Death, living in the loss of her mother, growing old before ever letting her youth live. All who saw her knew her, that holy woman who dressed in rigid garb and pious look, shuffling toward the church each Sunday to honor one who had died.
As she told this tale, I watched her face. Her demeanor leaked regret, and I noticed her companion sink into a borrowed sadness.
The years had passed like this. Nearly seventy years. I dare not say that life passed, for she was not living, it seemed. She was writhing in the rut of her lifeless, joyless traditions.
One snowy Sunday as she hobbled upward, she was noticed by a beautiful lady in the street. This lady, in fact, had lived as many years or even more than she, but somehow was youthful and alive. This beauty had a tender heart, and watching the shuddering silhouette before her, she moved to aid the woman in her ascent. Only then looking up, the gnarled woman gave a cry, seeing a face not so different from her own; she recognized her sister!
For a moment at least, it was a happy reunion. But her sister confirmed that their mother was dead. Our storyteller than began her tale, labouring to spin the yarn of their father's second marriage and eventual death, of her many faithful years tending the grave and praying to a God that seemed oblivious to her tears. As she spoke, she led her vibrant sister to the site, proudly showing how much she cared for their mother. The sister watched in awe as she pointed out decorations and candles, as she explained the weekly treks, the blisters, the inclement weather, the work needed to clean the stone, the prayers, and the rest of her ritual.
Suddenly, she who listened, who displayed such a joy and beauty about her, burst into muffled sobs. Unable to listen anymore, she interrupted her sister, who had not given her a chance to say much of anything, so great was her pride in her years of holy labour.
"My dear Sister!" she cried. "But if you only knew! It is true that Mother died, and oh! I miss her! But neither did she die on that train! She died only one month ago! For decades you have honored her as a dead saint, as a dimming memory. You have been faithful to her, you have loved who she was when you lost her! But, alas! If only you had known her! For those same decades, I lived with her! Everyday we spoke, sometimes even singing together. She smiled over my wedding! She helped me raise children! She gave me advice when I needed it, comfort when I lacked it, encouragement when I was ready to give up! She rejoiced with me when I rejoiced, wanting to here from me the slightest of details! Yes, she often thought wistfully of you, wishing you were close, hoping you would find her! You loved her, and her memory . . . but I was blessed to love her and be loved by her!"
At this, I remembered where we were. As I leapt back into reality, I noticed that the gloom of regret had once more quenched the words of the lady. Her sister, with sad eyes, finished the tale. She explained that they had been taken to a hospital further away for special treatment and were unable to get word to their family. When they were able to return finally to the town, they were too late, it seemed. The house was empty, and with the language barrier, they had been unable to locate their husband and father, or their daughter and sister. Having no other choice, they returned to their former home, among a people they knew, and rebuilt their life. Now, finally reunited with her sister, her only remaining family member, it grieved her to watch her sister churn the regret of missing years of life with their beloved mother.
I could tell that both woman had lived through much turmoil, but how different the result! One lived forever in hellish guilt, reliving the days of dogmatic conversation with a tombstone that could have been instead warm embraces of a loving mother. The other could not contain the contagious joy of a happy life, and it was only shrouded now and then by her empathetic, endless love for her sister beside her. She would never leave her now that she had found her! Their relationship was more important than anything else life had to offer! It had been the same with her mother. Now her mother lived in her, loving the faithful sister who had been dead for so many years . . . .
