Death leaves Us homesick, who behind,
Except that it is gone
Are ignorant of it’s Concern
As if it were not born.
Through all their former Places, we
Like Individuals go
Who something lost, the seeking for
Is all that’s left them, now —
~ Emily Dickinson
(The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #1066)
It is often said that grief comes in waves, and I would add that some of those surges are more intense than others. On September 12th I finally made it up to Connecticut to the cemetery to see installed the flat granite grave marker I designed and ordered for Tim and me. Traveling with chronic radiation proctitis isn’t a pleasant experience, to say the least, but I felt compelled to make an effort to see for myself our final resting place.
Elm Grove Cemetery is an exceptionally beautiful cemetery running along the Mystic River, and the view from our ancestral plot is lovely. It was established in 1853, and my 2nd-great-grandfather, William Martin White (1836-1925), purchased a large plot for his family. He had buried there his former father-in-law and mother-in-law, Robinson & Lydia Hill; his own parents, Austin & Lucy Ann (Thompson) White; his grandparents, Oliver & Lydia White; and his 16-year-old son, James Courtland White, who died from a gunshot wound. William lies buried there with his second wife, Martha Bennett. We don’t know where his first wife, Ellen Hill, my 2nd-great-grandmother, is buried, or whatever happened to her after they were divorced in 1876. When Larisa inquired she learned there was still space enough to bury our ashes there, too, since I am a direct descendant, and could prove it. Tim & I spent most of our married life nearby and so this seemed like the perfect place for us to end up.
Part of the rural cemetery movement, of the mid-nineteenth century, Elm Grove represents the Victorian approach to eternal rest in a park setting of rolling hills, brooks, and trees, showcasing ornate sepulchers decorated with flowers, willow trees, crowns, and trumpeting figures.
~ Elm Grove Cemetery Association webpage
It was a bittersweet day, as so many wonderful things happened but of course, I deeply missed having Tim to share them with. My son and daughter-in-law, Nate & Shea, had driven me up and after we visited the cemetery we met my sister and brother-in-law, Beverly & John, at an old favorite family seafood shack, Dad’s Restaurant, in Niantic. To our surprise, it had been beautifully renovated in our absence! The new deck for eating outside was higher than the old one, so we could see over the elevated railroad tracks out over Long Island Sound. Did I mention the weather was perfect that day? And they have the best fish and chips in the world, in my opinion, and I enjoyed every morsel.
After our lunch Nate took Shea to visit her relatives while Beverly, John, and I took a long nature walk through a marsh and up and down the beach it led to. Later, we wound up at Eastern Point Beach, “our beach,” and sat for a couple of hours on the bench where Tim & I used to spend our summer evenings. I went wild taking pictures of the gulls. (450 pictures on the camera for the one day!) The day already feels like a distant sweet dream now. I hope to write two more posts with pictures of these two adventures soon.
I chose the Dickinson poem above because I think she used the word homesick aptly to describe what grief can feel like. But the home we yearn for, our person, is gone, missing as if he never existed. And I could identify with the second stanza, feeling lost, as I visited some of the former places we so often used to be at together. I think I will never stop seeking Tim. Last night in line at the grocery store I was overcome with a strong urge to turn to him and rest my head on his shoulder, as I often did, and to receive a comforting hug. (Grocery shopping has ever been exhausting for me.) I never know when another wave will sweep over me. But I’m glad I went and have found some peace from being there.
