Now we are in a clearing on the edge of the woods, standing in a circle around his grave. About eighty of us gather here, his body below us on the cool, forest soil. Preparing to shovel earth over him, there is nothing to do now but weep and weep – or stand in silence and remember your own dead, or sing, or burn incense and spread smoke around this holy place, or whisper to children about what is happening, or introduce yourself to the person standing next to you, or pray for the one we are planting in the ground, or pray for your own losses, remember your own wounds, or embrace someone.
There is no explaining a grave. It’s a chasm you gaze into. In the middle lies the beloved, his body without breath on the soil he is becoming.
***
The week before, his grave is part of the unseen world, coming but not here yet. Creatures crawl through the soil as they have for centuries. Plants grow undisturbed.
Mom and I walk the land looking at possible sites: up the hill from my family’s log house, in the old garden plot where we planted potatoes that first year and herbs afterwards, at the firepit across the driveway from her house. In the end, we choose the place beyond the small poleshed, beyond the end of the driveway, up a little incline, just within the boundary of the woods. The place is secluded but easy to get to, hidden from the hubbub of daily life but close enough to know it’s there.
A couple mornings later, Dad still breathes at the memory care facility. Mom has slept one more night in the recliner next to him, greeting the workers making their rounds, checking Dad’s position, tidying the room in the morning to prepare for visitors. Outside her house, a 15-minute drive from the facility, my brothers and I meet four friends. It’s late February, not long after sunrise. We chat a bit, then walk to the end of the driveway, up the incline, down the path, and come to the place in the woods, as yet undisturbed.
Here, where we will make a grave, we stand in a circle and pray. At some point my two kids run up and stand with us. Another friend arrives. The ground is frosty, frozen, and after some words and some silence, my brothers and I share what we have learned in recent days: that three-and-a-half feet, not six, is the ideal depth, as the microbial community that will turn Dad’s body back into soil is most robust at that depth; that the dimensions should be about four-by-eight feet – like a sheet of plywood – so that there is room for us to stand in the grave as we lower his body; that some other folks who dug a grave in recent weeks reported the freeze was not deep, and so we should be able to bust through the frozen crust of the ground without too much trouble, but we’ll see.
None of these friends are gravediggers, though all have either worked on or run farms in the rural community where we live. Among them is the wife of the farming couple who’ve employed me for 13 years, and who immediately requested to be on the grave-digging crew when I told her we’d be burying Dad at home; a potato farmer who fixes antique farm equipment; a friend whose garden is like a sacrament to walk through; a friend who harvests wild rice every summer with his family; and a friend who used to live on this land with us, who has filled the hollow with chanting and guitar-playing.
With little conversation, these folks grab the tape measure and some shovels and take over the job of digging my father’s grave. My brothers tend to other tasks. My children and I step back from the group, grab a couple pairs of loppers and a handsaw, and clear the area of prickly ash. The diggers quickly break through the few inches of frozen soil, chatting, laughing, reverent. Making two piles at either end of the grave, they keep the topsoil separate from the rest. A neighbor from up the road joins us, and after about an hour, we finish.
My dad’s oldest brother, in town from St. Louis with his wife, arrives. Again, we stand in a circle, now with a hole that looks like a reverse altar between us. My uncle, who drove eight hours to see his little brother, offers thanks from my father’s family members who could not be here. My brothers and I say our thank yous, too. We make prayers, and when the ceremony is complete, my son leaps into the grave, lies down, puts his arms stiff by his sides and closes his eyes.
“I’m dead,” he says, punctuating the ceremony as only a child can do, lying like a myth on the soil where my father will lie, grinning like a trickster at the bottom of the tomb.
***
From wombs we come and to wombs we shall return.
Carried by our mothers, we dwell in this realm unseen, hidden from light, protected from the many dangers and delights of the earthly world. We are born and live among the beings of Creation, transformed by all that is. We grow old, our breath fades and then we come once again to the womb.
Each day, we experience this cycle microcosmically. From the womb of night, we arise as the sun rises. Slowly our consciousness gathers as light increases, then we move through the particular bustle that makes the life of each particular day. The sun moves toward the horizon, light fades and the day grows old, slows down. The sky becomes luminous – sometimes the earth even glows – before the sun falls behind the horizon like a seed. Darkness reemerges and we fall asleep, planted in the womb of night like the sun, to rise again the next day.
My father’s second womb is now ready to receive his body. Our friends go home and my brothers and my family and I go to join Mom and sit with Dad while he still breathes.
In the evening, I come back to the woods alone. In the coming days, more preparations will be made here. Our friend will drive over his tractor and dig out the snow bank at the end of the driveway to make a path for the funeral procession. Siporah will haul stones from the gully and make an altar at the base of a box elder that stands over the grave. Another friend will bring a van full of pine boughs to lay in the grave.
But for now the place is quiet. I cover the piles of soil with tarps and straw, not wanting them to take in moisture or freeze before the funeral. I set boards over the grave. Night falls. My brothers get back to Mom’s house after spending the evening with Dad, and we open beers, turn on music and talk late into the night, as we do every night they are here while Dad dies and Mom sleeps by his side.
This is really wonderful, brother. Thank you.
Your writings are so beautiful Joe! I am very teary reading this . . . but feel the love of your family through your words! love you so much.