Gravestone Mystery Resolved

We have reached our destination and, as alwa, Uncle Fernando makes himself comfortable in his driver's seat. He can go nowhere, and happily starts to read his beloved daily Marca football newspaper until we finally return to our driver and vehicle. Due to lack of effective space, the graves at the cemetery are piled high in locker style, and it feels like everyone is stored away for eternity in chests of drawers. In spite of this it is a beautiful final resting place, the views down to the coastline are spectacular and the warm sun caresses the bones of those departed. We follow the precise coordinates given by the professional over the phone and lo and behold, we come face to face with Papa’s grave, complete with beautiful headstone. Mama is very quiet and so is Zara. As I suspected, they had been laying flowers at the wrong grave, a fresh grave just like Papa’s, still awaiting the arrival of headstone but not Papa’s. ‘These corridors, they all look the same!’ and this is all Mama has to say on the matter. Case closed (see post Columbus And The Missing Gravestone) 

This is well out of order!' exclaims Zara with hands on hips and in her delightful English manner, 'Nanny, Daddy and I were here two weeks ago, laying flowers and paying our respects to Grandad, and we did it all at the wrong grave!' following the outburst with flamboyant hand gestures in a most definite non-English way. I see she is getting used to local ways fast. 'We chose those flowers with great care and Daddy wept at what he though was Grandad's grave, when all along it was the tomb of a complete stranger!’ she tells me rather vexed. ‘Well, your father will just have to fly back from England to make sure he finally weeps at the correct grave', I assertively reply, now assuming the tone of authoritative Aunt, Tia Maria, 'He is always looking for a good excuse to come and visit you in Tenerife, and, trust me, this is as good a reason as he will ever get!' And we both burst into a fit of infectious laughter which soon spreads to Mama. The other visitors at the cemetery look at us disapprovingly, we are disturbing their moment of tranquillity with loved ones. Clearly merriment and cemeteries are not an acceptable combination, so we cease our laughter but cannot wipe the smiles off our faces imagining Mama, Zola and her Papa weeping with blissful ignorance at the grave of a complete stranger. Laughter is indeed a wonderful anecdote to sadness and we feel no shame, the most welcomed of visitors has joined us at this sombre moment and we are in no hurry to bid him goodbye.

 ‘

Papa’s gravestone is indeed beautiful. Sis and I chose well. Made of shiny black granite, it has a touching inscription in the centre and a cross on the outer left edge. The right edge is empty through personal choice. Sis and I were offered the option of another religious inscription as part of the regular package: ‘An image of Jesus, the Virgin Mary or perhaps an angel praying for the soul of the deceased?’ the professional at the Funeral Parlour gently suggests just a few days after Papa’s passing. Now Sis and I both know that Papa was not particularly religious and none of these suggested images reflect him nor his life style. I suddenly realise what would reflect Papa perfectly: ' How about a Mercedes star? Papa loved his Mercedes cars’, I add enthusiastically (see post Goodbye Mercedes Man), 'Absolutely not!’ is the frosty reply. ‘Madam, this is a funeral parlour not a car dealership. We do not supply vehicle logos, you will have to source it from elsewhere’. He tersely adds. Sis and I look at one another knowingly and concur that this is a subject we can drop as it will not get us anywhere, at least for the moment. So, Papa, we tried our very best to get you a Mercedes Logo but failed miserably, and this is the reason why the left-hand side of your headstone is left unadorned.

The gravestone has laid out on it the precise details of Papa's life in a combination of numbers and letters: And I realise that it is the numbers and not the letters which predominantly define us at the end of this long journey that we call life. Numbers rule our lives, yours and mine, and classify us with exact precision in a way that words cannot; when we were born, when we died, the age we attained upon our departure, the number of children we had. Even our success is measured in numbers; how much wealth we amassed; how much we earned. Some numbers are more impacting than others. Considered unlucky by many, the number thirteen holds for me a special significance; for many of the pivotal moments of my life have taken place in the midst of these two notorious digits, and I await with a mixture of awe and trepidation those events still to unfold. After this minute moment of philosophy is concluded, we set about laying the flowers that should have been laid there weeks ago. 

It feels good that we three are now together in front of Papa’s final resting place, complete with headstone albeit minus Mercedes logo, and paying our respects to this man who changed the course of our family history. Now Papa is finally at rest, on The Other Side with his beloved Mama and little Sister Mercedes. The Sister that generated so much emotion in Papa on our visit to his homeland of Andalusia all those years ago when I was a small child of just three (see post The Other Planet). In the midst of this touching moment, Zara asks the question that has also been on the tip of my tongue all morning, 'who on the earth was the stranger that got Grandad's flowers and tears?' 'No idea' shoots back Mama, 'this cemetery is a maze and it's a wonder we found our way here today!' and Zara and I exchange The Look and The Smile that says, as far as Mama is concerned, the subject is closed and off-limits. Mama always insists on having the last word on everything, and our love and affection for her is so great that we readily comply.

To be continued...

Next  post 12th March :The River


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.