When the living come for a visit, they don’t always talk. A lot of times, they stand there, at attention, and they stare at the headstone because they don’t know what else to look at, and you know they’re counting in their heads, maybe up to a thousand or two thousand, or maybe they’re trying to pray. They frown very firmly, in case anyone is watching, like the caretaker or another visitor.

When they get up to a thousand, they heave these little sighs, to show that it’s done, and then they walk off, and they walk at a certain speed, trying not to hurry too much so it looks like they don’t want to leave as badly as they really do. It’s almost funny to see, because we all did it too, when we were the living, put on those little shows for ourselves. But it’s sad, too, because they don’t know what they’re there for. The ones with the flowers, it’s the same thing, it’s just a different way to pass the time, but they get to look busy. Useful.

But sometimes they talk, and the things they say…I always think of the letters I used to get from my daughter from Girl Scout camp. “Dear Mommy. I am fine. We swim every day and it is fun. I made Brian a lanyard, don’t tell because it is a surprise.” Like human postcards, these people, it’s a nice gesture, but they don’t really say anything.

It’s the same as the standers, and the ones with the flowers, funny and sad at the same time, but…more so. Sometimes I could die laughing, and then other times, some of these husbands…he slept beside the woman for thirty years, or forty, fifty, danced with her in the kitchen, knew how she wanted her coffee, knew her like he knew his own name, and then he comes and talks about repairs he had done on the car for twenty minutes. It’s heartbreaking. But I didn’t do it any differently myself back then. When I went to my mother’s grave, I used to tell her all about my classes at school. She’d have wanted to hear about them, if she were alive, so that’s what I talked about. The rest of it I kept to myself.

And I know how it feels, we all do. We all went through it when we were in their shoes. We didn’t know what to say either, to the dead or to each other, so we would say things that didn’t mean anything, things like…oh, I don’t know, “so young, it’s such a tragedy,” for example. Now, what does that mean, that before-their-time business? Who’s to say when it’s time?

I didn’t think it was my time, that’s for sure. I prayed…I begged for my life, in bed at night, in the shower, all day, under my breath, just the word “please” over and over. Please let me live…let me stay. I pointed out to God all the reasons why I should get to keep my life, that my children hadn’t grown up all the way, that I’d tried to be a good person, that I didn’t deserve this.

It didn’t work.

And when it didn’t work, when I knew I was going to die, I thought, it’s my own fault. It must be. I must have done it to myself somehow, it’s a punishment, and I wasn’t a good person. I wasn’t a bad person, I never killed anyone, but I wasn’t as good as I could have been, wasn’t gracious, didn’t listen, was forgetful and lazy and selfish, just like anyone else. Didn’t appreciate things, life…took it all for granted, it’s typical, I suppose. And I knew that, that I wasn’t any worse than anyone else, but I also knew I hadn’t tried to do better, or not hard enough, and God didn’t hear me.

That’s how it felt then, at the end, lonely. I think if I had had a sign, that I was forgiven, it would have helped. Now, I see things differently, because…it’s easier, blaming yourself. In some ways, it is. It’s easier not to forgive yourself and think, I did this, because then, you have a reason, and it makes sense. But if you don’t blame yourself, if you think, these things just happen, it’s harder.

But they do just happen. I prayed for my life, for it to go on, and it didn’t, but what must Jessica have prayed for at the end? She hadn’t had time…how could God have punished her for things she hadn’t had time to do yet? Or Stevie? Stevie died on her way to help her sister…she died in the act of helping. And if it’s true what they say, that she kept crawling on the ground after she was thrown out of the car…what is that a punishment for? Not sending a thank-you note? It’s not for interrupting people while they were talking, God knows. It just makes no sense. Unless God is very petty, which…well, I think we all hope that’s not true.

And then what is she still doing here, walking down there every night? What is that a punishment for? If it’s a punishment at all.

When I came to visit my mother…I wanted to say everything, how much I missed her, how much I wanted her back, but I never did, because I didn’t want to say those things and then not get an answer. And I thought then that it would be an answer I…didn’t want. And that’s part of it. But really, we don’t have an answer. Even if the living asked us, and…they never do.

My name is Noreen LaSalle. I died of breast cancer, April 17, 1984.

December 1, 2003

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