Under a red granite, slant headstone, Nicholas and Mary Bazan rest. Outliving her husband by 38 years, Mary died only in April of 2015. Having moved to Highlands, NC, Mary knew she would come back to a plot she and her husband had paid for decades earlier. Such fidelity to man, memory and land has become much rarer, no doubt, though we blithely call it freedom. When not blown hither and thither like husks, many of us still disown everything.
Remo showed us another cemetery, Odd Fellows. The fatal fire started right next to it in 1962. As a teenager, Remo and his buddies would get it on with their girlfriends among the tomb stones. The hellish heat from below kept those young, entangled limbs on the surface balmy even in Winter. A mile away, snow may be falling, but here they could disrobe under the stars.
"You could walk around with no shoes on. It was like the beach."
"Remo, didn't you feel guilty having sex next to a bunch of crucifixes?" I asked.
"It's only a sacrilege if you're sober. It's not a sacrilege if you're drunk."
We all laughed. "You didn't feel funny having sex on top of grandmas and grandpas?"
"I crossed myself before I did it."
I, too, have a teenaged cemetery (sorta) sex story. Perhaps it is an archetypical scenario. Above an astronomical mound of bones, we make love. Bones against bones, on top of bones.
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