‘Do I talk to the wall?’: A cemetery visit raises unexpected questions

I thought I’d heard all the stories about my father. Until, at his funeral, a former medical colleague recalled a surprise tribute dinner organised in his honour. My father got up and said: “Thank you very much. I’m going now.” Then he left.

“I just stand there, not knowing how to feel. Less moved than I should be.”Credit: Bren Luke/illustrationroom.com.au

I loved that story about a man who liked neither fuss nor surprises. I’ve inherited those traits; also a tendency to disappear from events. I think about this when I visit the place where there are memorial plaques for both of my parents.

The first one commemorates my mother, who died too young, in 1985. The plaque was my father’s idea: he composed the four lines and decided where it would be placed – high on a cemetery wall in an inner suburb of Melbourne. The choice of site bemused my brother and sister and me. As a teenager I’d often get off a tram near the cemetery, and I once endured compulsory swimming lessons at a pool over the road, but that was it.

Our father said he’d chosen that particular wall because it got a lot of sun, and our mother always hated the cold. He was grieving, so we went along with the idea. Twenty years later a plaque went up for him. They were a pair again, side by side.

Once a year, I make a pilgrimage to see them. But even the timing is problematic. My mother died on the afternoon a horse called What A Nuisance won the Melbourne Cup.

So I visit on Cup Day, even though the date shifts year to year. This underlines the arbitrariness of anniversaries, with one number deemed more meaningful than others. The date my father died? I’d have to look it up. Cup Day does for both of them.

My mother died on the afternoon a horse called What A Nuisance won the Melbourne Cup.

But I never know what to do at the cemetery. I start with a kind of game. I’ve never memorised the column and row numbers for the plaques. Never consulted a touchscreen near the cemetery office. Instead, I walk alongside the wall that catches the sun, usually only with my dog for company, until I stumble upon the plaques for Isobel and Harold. The other Isobel, my sister, has usually beaten me to it. I admire her little posies of home-grown flowers, invariably more impressive than my own.

Both the dog and I pause, unsure what’s expected. It was a different dog when my father died. Another absence. The later dog wanders around sniffing. I just stand there, not knowing how to feel. Less moved than I should be. Do I talk to the wall? No. There is nothing behind the plaques. The niches for ashes are empty. They were scattered, or secreted, elsewhere. My parents aren’t here. Which leaves me wondering what the composition of those words on the plaques – my father and then me, following rules governing lines and letters – achieved.

I stand there silently. Then I move away, letting the dog head wherever she wants. Opposite the plaques are more elaborate memorials, lots of polished marble and faded photographs, with many rows of script. Names and dates, which prompt mental arithmetic. Born 1914, Died 1993 ... it takes me a few moments: 79, give or take a month. Then I start making comparisons: 79 is older than both my parents; younger than my mother’s only sister, now well into her 92nd year in Edinburgh.

Family history is here. I start making connections ... Renata, loving wife of Giovanni, who died (more arithmetic) 16 years after her husband of 52 years. And she was then (pause) 87, meaning she must have been 19 on her wedding day. And only just into her 20s when she had the first of three children – Antonio, Maria and Pietro. All listed under Giovanni’s name.

Perhaps these are their relatives, now approaching from a side path. Out of respect, I put the dog back on her lead. I notice personal touches on simple graves. On one, plastic letters spelling out L.O.V.E. On another, for a woman named Louisa, a handwritten dedication: For my darling Velvet. It’s strangely touching. Only then does it hit me that I never leave any kind of note. Just some flowers, which will shrivel in the sun.

There are earthworks above one grave. Preparing for an imminent burial or doing some repairs? Who knows. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Mud to mud. Clumps of it. Oddly confronting. So too the large, elaborate building with a sign: Peace Haven Mausoleum. First Entombment 2001. With climate control for residents.

Approaching the exit, the dog picking up her pace, I notice a woman tapping at the touchscreen and wonder if all the paperwork necessary when my father’s plaque was sorted can now be done online. A sign near the gate advises that the cemetery closes at 5pm. Management is grateful for my visit. Please come again.

Thank you very much. I’m going now.

To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age and Brisbane Times.