Interlude

Part Four, In Which an Old Acquaintance Gets a New Visitor

Before this month, the closest I’ve been to someone who died was named Kristin. It was five years ago. A brief text message broke the news. She had been combating cancer for about six months and I hadn’t noticed. We had lost touch but for the occasional social media comment, so I forgave myself for not knowing . . . . until I scrolled down her page a bit. She hadn't been hiding it.

Kristin was one of the Old Guard, the friends I made in the back half of high school and for whom I kept affection – if not in touch – through most of college. I’d only been back to Dallas once since she died, and that was to introduce my Lady Love to my childhood home during Christmas; it didn’t feel right to visit Kristin’s grave at that time. But this time I was in town for the specific purpose of attending a wake with the people who knew both him and her, so I figured I was In the Emotional Neighborhood.

I didn’t know exactly where she was. It took some scrolling before I was able to find her obituary. I knew that she’d spent her final months having moved up from Houston to be nearer her parents and brother, and I was correct to assume she hadn’t travelled far after her death. She was in Restland, a cemetery whose name is so on the nose I couldn’t take it seriously. I kept imagining clowns passing out pillows and shushing people, like a carnival held in a library. Every few square acres are uniquely named, separated by walkways and roadways to make the place easier to navigate. They call them ‘gardens’. Makes sense. It’s where you plant people.

The staff were very helpful in helping me locate her Bench, a large slab of stone this place carves your name and dates into if you’ve been cremated. I hadn’t known that. They also said she was in the bench. I didn’t ask.

I was handed a map and was given a rough location and a very inaccurate sense of how far I would have to walk to get there. I got a little lost. It took me most of an hour before I found it, checking the map from time to time, eventually forsaking the twisted pavement in favor of traipsing between headstones and apologizing to those whose names were etched or embossed into them.

The walk tired me out enough to shift my mood from somber to snarky. I considered and discarded several clever things I would say when I got there. Though I had known her for years I never got comfortable enough to be myself when I was around her. I had always regretted that she had only seen me for what I presented, never for who I was. Maybe I’m wrong.

Once I found her I sat down and made awkward small talk for a few minutes just like they do in the movies. I beat around the bush. I said all the things I wish I’d said when I had the chance.

I told her about Kevin’s death. He had been the one to tell me about hers, so it felt appropriate to bear the message on his behalf. I admitted I hadn’t cried yet. I told her I was curious and concerned about what that meant. I talked about the fact that thinking about that fact nearly brought the tears, but that talking about it made them go away again. I expressed frustration that I couldn’t find an emotional release. “Then again,” I said, "I’ve been on some quality antidepressants these days, so maybe that’s getting in the way of my catharsis.”

Then I laughed myself stupid. It was the strongest emotional burst I’d felt since I heard the news. I took a little time to recognize and be grateful that it finally happened and that it felt so pleasant.

The walk back to the car was brisk, sunny, and quiet . . . . until I remembered that Kristin was, like the rest of the Old Guard, a fan of They Might Be Giants. I don’t know how common it is for someone to march between the markers of the brief lives of former Texans while singing Birdhouse In Your Soul at the top of his lungs, but anyone within earshot caught an earful that afternoon.

It was my first time for that, too.