CITIES OF THE DEAD

Audrey C. Tiernan
The only grandparent I knew, my Mother's mother died when I was eight. One constant memory I have of her is visiting the cemetery in Queens where my grandfather is buried at least twice a month. There was an old park bench situated under a cherry tree right near the family plot. My Mom would plant flowers for the season: pansies, geraniums and in fall mums. My grandmother would sit on the bench and I would always climb the cherry tree. For me those were fun afternoons and I guess the significance of the trip was lost on me, like the grandfather I never knew. I remember going there for my grandmother's funeral and feeling very small when I saw the big hole in the ground. I didn't visit again until I was eleven and my father was buried in the family plot on a frigid February day in 1967. It was so cold and the ground so frozen that the gravediggers couldn't even dig his grave. I wouldn't go to the cemetery again until I was an adult, for the funeral of my first cousin who died before he was 50. A photo assignment took me into the cemetery several years after that. I decided to go say hello to the family after shooting the job. Instinctively I remembered the turns that took me to the family plot. Immediately I noticed that the park bench was gone and the cherry tree had been cut down too. Oddly enough, I felt a real sense of loss at their absence. I stood for quite awhile, thinking of those afternoons spent with my grandmother on the bench. In New Orleans cemeteries are referred to as cities of the dead, but since then whenever I visit I feel so many memories come to life.