The Rites of Spring

                           The Rites of Spring

         I was making my annual spring pilgrimage to Holy Cross Cemetery in Lackawanna, N.Y. It was one of those golden days of spring in Buffalo. The temps were in the mid sixties, the sun shone brightly over head and the wind speed was negligible. The grass everywhere hereabouts is greener than green at this time of year. It has the sparkling quality of newly polished emeralds.

         I stopped first in the garden of St. Jude. Mom, Dad, brothers Edward & Daniel and sister Maureen lie here in eternal repose. I tidied up the gravesites with a trimmer and grass claw. It is an eternal battle that the grass always wins. Some day none will come to visit here and these ground level stones will be part of the anonymous cadre of the untended departed who lie here at Holy Cross.

        After a few prayers, I brief the fallen clan members on the various bits of news and events that have happened since my last visit. Brother James has joined the assembled a few months back and brother Mike’s significant other, Diane several months before that. I like to think everyone, living and not, likes to be kept up on the events of the day. I said a last prayer and asked them all if they could put in a word for sister Marie, who struggles mightily.

    Just across the road, in the Garden of the Annunciation, sits the grand, marble stone of brother John Francis. The etched Claddagh symbol, with the accompanying prayer, draw your eye to Jack’s impressive monument. I said the same few prayers and asked the same favors of Jack.

     It was the movement, at the corner of my eye, that startled me. A newly born fawn lay trembling in the grass, just behind Jack’s stone. The bug eyes and rapid respiration demonstrated the fear that the poor new born felt in the face of this large creature standing above her. I spoke quietly, as you would to settle the nerves of any newborn. I think it was the unexpected visage of new life, here amidst the rows of the fallen, that most gave me pause. The superstitious Celts, who came before us, would have read a world of ominous meaning into this visage of new and old life, side by side.

     I said a final prayer, wished good health on the newborn and set off to find a caretaker. I told the man of the new born fawn but he didn’t seem all that concerned. He said that Does often left their newborns among the stones, while they meandered off in search of food. They usually returned to the fawns soon enough. This fawn would be okay he said. Some how that made me feel better. New life anywhere is precious and needs our protection until it can stand on its own.

     Brothers Kevin Patrick, Patrick  Michael and James Joseph  lay elsewhere in their repose. I sent them good wishes on the wind and set off for home to deal with the living. Thoughts of the newborn fawn, and my fallen family members, streamed intermingled in my thoughts for the rest of that day. And I was glad that if but for a few moments, in my mind’s eye, these fine people had been remembered and their souls honored for who and what they were.

       Vaya Con Dios to all of those fallen and now at rest..

                                       -30-

                               (581 words)

                           Joseph Xavier Martin