brazil Part 4

 I might have died of sorrow watching the birth of Louana. What a beautiful name. I have one tiny photo of my son when he was a baby. I don't even know how old he was when it was taken. I was given it by his adoptive mother, technically it is not even mine, that's how it feels. I have a copy of the funeral service. Should I video that? I stuff down my feelings continually. I watch the baptism and remember that I gave my son a name but they changed that. What do I have? Pain which I am unable to express. I ram it down again. Again and again for two weeks I do this. Then after the fourth or fifth or six or seventh family photo session we are sitting on the patio of one of Jocara's four sisters and one of them  points out that there is a cemetery close by. All the sisters are widows. Two  of them have recently become widows. Jocara suggests a walk around the cemetery. Oh good I think at least we can do something other than looking at photos of the living and the dead. Now we can look at their graves. It is an improvement to be out of doors and moving instead of sitting on those upright chairs. Is that symbolic. Upright Catholics sit on upright chairs. Fallen women like me lounge around in arm chairs.

I agree to the cemetery visit.  It is so big that we have to drive there. As we walk in it hits me. The flood gates open . I can't stop crying. I bite my lip. I stuff a hanky in my mouth. I try to hold back my sorrow. I clamp my hand over my mouth. Nobody notices. I recognise what I am doing to myself. Why shouldn't  I cry? I am with four women who have all experienced death but none of them notice the state I am in. 

I grab Jocara's arm. " Il me faut etre seul. Je reviendrai a la voiture." They all look aghast. I walk away quickly. " Freda, tu veux le clef?" 

"Merci je marche."

At last no prying eyes. I walk and sob amongst the graves. They are all covered  in tiles and elaborate decorations. Someone told me that AIDS victims had to be cremated. I don't know if this is true. I find these graves soppy and full of religious sentimentality, some even have photos of the deceased. Photos again!  I wouldn't want to do that  even if I had a photo. I do have three photos now but I do not know how to remember Simon as a baby? as a child? as a young man? Why oh why didn't he come to see me. I think he would have liked me. if only I could talk to him.

I walk up and down the rows of graves and wonder if it be irreligious to sit on one. Well I am irreligious but I wouldn't want to be disrespectful to other people's beliefs. I decide that it is OK and sit on one that looks as though it has been cleaned recently. I don't remember whether it was the grave of a man or a woman or a child or even a family. I don't think I read the inscription.    I was looking at the flowers when I noticed the tiniest of baby dolls at the bottom of the head stone. I have no idea if it was a child's offering to the departed or some other symbolic gesture. I wanted to pick it up but resisted and did not even touch it.