Une histoire des Cimetières

Billowing grey cloaked the Parisian skies as I emerged from the metro, black boots percussive on moist concrete. The wall loomed ahead as I traversed the street, a symbol of confinement and solitude stretching away into the horizon line. Crossing the arched threshold, I climbed several wet steps to enter Père Lachaise cemetery. My hands pulled a vintage Rolleicord from my red leather bag as I strolled down a forested path, deserted in the mid morning fog. I perched gingerly on the ledge of a small mausoleum, stones crumbling in their antiquity, and tore the wrapping from a roll of film. I gently eased it home, snapping the lid and turning the film advance lever. Standing, I resumed my voyage inward. Black, feathered forms glided overhead as I heard a familiar screech. The crow’s call is the soundtrack of a cemetery. I breathed in the dampness, marveling in the display of silent, macabre beauty. Turquoise streaks painted by time, an oxidization of rain dripping over copper and down the face of an ample marble remembrance; a dislodged doorway allowing courageous passersby to gaze downward into mystery; raised letters in iron or stone, expressing sentiments of sorrow and pride; crystal beadlets embracing the outstretched arms of a spider’s web; leaves in their autumnal spectrum, a spectacle of sacred geometry living and dying, a true homage to the existence of this sprawling shrine. Upon approaching a towering dome I could hardly believe to solely house human remains, an elder gentleman ambled by. He held a flat terracotta saucer brimming with glistening snails. A smile broke free upon my countenance just as our gazes intersected, so I asked him politely, in French, where he was taking that boatload of escargots. A gentle grin tinged with mischief appeared in his wizened features. He explained that he visits his mother’s grave each week to find the snails eating his gifts of potted flowers, so he was kindly relocating them. He inquired into my history, asking my name and how I came to speak French so well. He flattered me; my accent is good but fluency is yet a dream. After standing on the corner in parlance for several minutes he asked if I would like to accompany him through the cemetery, offering me a tour of some notable graves and further conversation. I hesitated, then a subtle inner knowing whispered, opportunities like this are golden. I accepted. Together, we journeyed further into the labyrinth of lives lived and lost.