Mornings,
we walk among the graves,
up hills and down.
I read the stones, glean the stories buried there.
A child, born and died, 2 days old.
Her mother gone, too.
Beloved father and mother,
pictures frozen on the stone,
as if they look the same today.
One young man, mother’s son,
died in war,
before he lived his life.
Mornings,
I count the years of the beloveds
as we walk among the graves.
I reckon those whose lives I now outlive,
some by many years.
I drift off, recounting my own life:
who was I, then?
The time has passed away,
and so quickly.
Mornings,
I am sad as we walk among the graves.
I look into the sky, beautiful.
I see the city in the distance,
all that life booming and moving,
all those moments of importance,
passing too –
quickly.
Mary Elyn Bahlert, 10/2020
From the beginning of COVID sheltering-in-place, in March, 2020, through the long months that followed, Jeff and I had a morning routine. We’d rise from bed at 5:30, make two dripped cups of coffee, and sit together in the living room. After a time, we’d get dressed for the day and head outside for our morning walk: St. Mary’s Cemetery, just a block away from our home, has beautiful views of San Francisco Bay from the top of the hill. Each day, we’d pass the same graves, by the same route, talking with neighbors, stopping to play with someone’s dog, greeting those who passed by – some for the first time. We made friendships on those walks, and we heard plans change as a young couple purchased their first home in another neighborhood, some friends only people who passed us with a nod and a “good morning,” never to be seen again. This poem is from the time of COVID, in 2020.
“Mornings,
I count the years of the beloveds
as we walk among the graves.
I reckon those whose lives I now outlive,
some by many years… ”
