Judy, or Just a Block with a Name

They tell me the cemetery is up the hill. I drive the car I borrowed from a friend up there and leave it at the parking lot. I take out the piece of paper another friend had scribbled directions to the grave on. I get lost a couple of times, but finally find it. Judy Yeats, 1979-1999. The tombstone is dark. Just a block with the name, nothing fancy. I think it suits her. Someone has left flowers. Looks like it might have been yesterday.

The cemetery is empty. It’s early in the morning. I sit down in front of the tombstone. I don’t feel sad. I’ve never felt sad in cemeteries. I’ve never felt sad during funerals either, and not even when hearing that someone had died. I find it hard to explain why that is. When I hear that someone has died, I usually have too hard a time to comprehend what this means to feel sad. Funerals are mostly bizarre and somewhat awkward social events to me, and I get too distracted to feel sad. And cemeteries feel in general too peaceful for me to feel sad. And in the end, death is just death. And sadness has nothing to do with it.

What’s sad, is life. No, I have to correct that. Or at least explain it better: It’s not life that is sad per se. But it’s life where sadness can be felt, and so it’s life that can be sad. In death, you feel nothing. You are dead. And the only link between death and sadness is the sadness of the living because they miss the dead. And why don’t I miss the dead? I don’t know. I just don’t.

And if you asked me what I felt sitting down in front of that tombstone on that chilly morning up on that hill, I’d have to say hardly anything. Calm maybe. But, that’s no surprise. I’ve already said it: I find cemeteries peaceful. And I guess that’s why I wanted to come. For some peace. To think. About her, I guess. At least also. 1979-1999. That’s young.

I hadn’t even spent much time with Judy. Just about two weeks. And we never even had sex. I mean, not really. I mean, we never fucked. Somehow, it hadn’t been about that. We just hang out. And we definitely weren’t supposed to fall in love, and even more definitely didn’t intend to. In any case, falling in love didn’t seem part of our time together, and we never even remotely talked about it. After all, it was clear that we would only have these two weeks since I was leaving the country and had no idea when I’d be back, and Judy’s plans were all over the place, and, well, that was it.

And then I left, and I knew I had fallen in love, but I wouldn’t admit it, since it wasn’t part of the plan, and I wrote to Judy, and the letters were nice, but they didn’t speak of love, because I would have felt silly speaking of love. And her letters were nice, but they didn’t speak of love either, because she would have probably felt silly speaking of love too.

And then Judy got sick, and I didn’t know exactly what it was, but she was in hospital, and I thought it might have had something to do with the drugs, but apparently it didn’t, or only indirectly, and then she was dead.

Rob, a common friend sent me the message. And a few days later he sent me another one saying that he had talked to Judy’s closest friends and that they had said that all she had talked about the last couple of weeks was me, and how much she missed me, and they didn’t understand why we hadn’t been together ‘cause we must have loved each other so much, unless I hadn’t loved her, which they didn’t know.

I never replied to that message. What should I have written?

All this had been five months ago. Now I was back in the country earlier than expected. Even though it seemed completely pointless, visiting Judy’s grave was one of the reasons that had made me come back this early.

I arrived in Portland, and then drove down to her hometown in my friend’s car. I had never been there before. We had spent all our time together in and around the city. And now I’m sitting here in front of her grave feeling nothing.

“Are you Daniel?”

I turn around. An attractive woman, I’d say in her forties, dressed all in black, is standing behind me. Not sure if I’ve done anything wrong, I get up, brush the grass off my pants, and cautiously say “yes”.

“Hi,” the woman says and stretches out her hand. “I’m Karen. Judy’s mother.” I shake the hand that grasps mine firmly and nod. I don’t know what to say. The woman, Karen, looks at me kindly. I can’t look her in the eyes, and play with my hair instead. I don’t feel so good.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she says. Even her voice is kind. It doesn’t make me feel better. I choke. She gives me a hug. I cry silently on her shoulder. She finally lets go and asks me if I want to go for coffee. I nod, wiping tears from my eyes.

I put the candy I brought on Judy’s grave. Her mom smiles. I can see tears in her eyes too.

(2002)