The Burial Ground, Part 1

Finding refuge in a local cemetery during Spring 2020

I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul,
The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me

Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

As the sun peered through Lowell Cemetery’s trees in March 2020, a black and white bird with a red breast flew across Hyacinth Path while I sat cross-legged under a white dogwood, which I’d later refer to as my Bodhi tree.

“What was that?!” I exclaimed to no one, trying to follow the bird’s path until I could no longer see it. I’d never seen anything like it before, and left me curious and enchanted. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to identify it and learned it was a rose-breasted grosbeak. It was sometimes referred to as “cut-throat” due to the red on its breast. I’d argue that its heart was bleeding instead. It made me want to know the names, songs, calls, and habits of every bird I saw afterward.

After taking leave from Fresh Market because I was tasked with sanitizing several areas of the store, risking my health and possibly my life, I explored the inner paths of the cemetery every day. The inner paths took me along the oldest section of the cemetery, which was seldom traveled. Those who’d visit graves here were long dead themselves. Before the pandemic, I visited the cemetery often and walked along the periphery of it solely for exercise, sometimes greeting fellow walkers, like the old man who was there at 8 a.m. every morning and loved seeing my dog. Now, my surroundings took on new meaning.