When people pass away they (or their earthly remains) go to cemeteries for burial or interment, for the most part. The condition of their memorials, whatever form they take, is largely in the remit of their families.
Yesterday I went to the Eastern Suburbs Memorial Garden at Matraville (which is a long hike from Hazelbrook) to visit my mum. Her garden bed, which is a rose garden, hosts the memorial tablets of four family members and one family friend. There are long stories to tell about all of them, though this is not the time.
A few years ago we had the tablets of two grandparents remade as they had crumbled. My mum's, being only 15 months old, is shiny and new and made of far sturdier materials than the older versions, though what they will all look like in 60 years remains to be seen. For as long as I have breath I will visit regularly to polish and clean the plinths and weed the general area. The staff there seem to do a pretty good job too.
It is sad to see tablets that are uncared for, some now impossible to read, or having missing or lose plaques. I have a mind to take some super glue next time and repair a few of them, for surely they are worthy of more respect than this. I wonder if the neglect they now experience was once also the way they left the world - lonely, largely unknown.
I miss my mum, our daily phone conversations, her sharp memories of the past. I have a place to go to chat and pray - that at least, is a blessing. The gardens themselves are not far from the sea - Botany Bay on one side, and the Tasman on the other. Hence this small poem.
One Sea-Side Grave
Unmindful of the thorn,
A reaper tired reposes
Among his gathered corn:
So might I, till the morn!
Cold as the cold Decembers,
Past as the days that set,
While only one remembers
And all the rest forget, -
But one remembers yet.
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