Walking down to their gravesite, I reflect on how infrequently I visit, as I never know what to do, say, or think when I’m there with them. Far from the farmhouse, a few feet from the forest wall, they lay still.
I can barely make out the names because the moss has taken over. I scrub, my knees bare against the earth, and quickly understand why no one else wanted this task: cleaning the gravesite that’s been unattended for a few years. I’m removing dirt to uncover their names —James Rufus (1911-1999) and Marie Ellen (1915- 2002) Dillard. While fighting debilitating hand cramps, mosquitoes, and vicious ticks searching for their new home, I settle into an hours-long rhythm of scrubbing top to bottom, bottom to top, and then top to bottom again. I am alone. I am with them.
Circa 1986, Grandma and Grandpa hold hands, and everyone follows, “Let us bow our heads…” our cue to bless the food. I hear the crackling and sizzling grease get slower as the last piece of golden-brown fish rests among others on a bed of paper towels. That’s my signal to get the ice in the cups and butter on the rolls. I hear the “Heavenly Father, we thank you for…” as Kedren stomps on Jason’s foot. “Oooww-ch!” Aunt Brenda moves between them. I hear many voices in unison, “Amen,” a brief pause, and now, the sounds of forks and knives against plates. I hear someone say, “Pass the salt-n-pepper, please,” and “No, the bigger one, thanks,” as Reggie jockeys for the largest fish. Some of us file outside, balancing our plates and silverware, napkins and drinks, to the folding chairs on the deck under the oak tree since we all can’t fit at the table. I don’t know all their names, but the assorted faces are all familiar from the photos I’ve seen and the stories I’ve heard.
I want it to be perfect, spotless, free of age. I want to care for them, spend time with them, and talk to them. I want in on the years I missed with them. I’m wearing a hole in the cement they are trapped in. Still, desperation and longing won’t bring me to a place where I’d ever hear their voices.
Exhausted, I can’t help but think how strange it is to only know them through imagined animation from borrowed memories and inanimate cement vaults on an old farm. I close my eyes; they’re alive with my family, me watching from a distance–lucidly, persuasively. Yet, as soon as I feel their warmth, I return to the reality that they’re familiar strangers. I drift back to the pungent and piercing smell of ammonia and two desolate gray cement slabs staring at me under a towering Eastern White Pine.
The power they possess, even in death, provides meaning, context, and expectations. Repeatedly, they beckon me to take a seven-hour trek to “Dillard Farm.” I set aside time to know where I come from and who I am, as it will shape where I go.
Empowered and inspired to continue pushing through whatever I find challenging, I’m reminded of their sacrifices and investment in a better future for our family and me. I’m their youngest grandchild, 17 years old; my father is the youngest of their seven children. I hope they sense my drive to seize every opportunity never afforded them a generation removed from enslavement in the segregated South. I hope they are proud of who I am becoming.
We’ve never laid eyes on each other– Marie, James, and me—Marie Sheradon, but I proudly don the name of this woman I’ve never met. I trust I’m wearing it well. Although I’ve never felt their embrace, their love elevates me as I reach for my highest potential.
I’m unsure how, but my ancestors are watching over me.
