I can see the northern end of the cemetery from my kitchen window. This piece – an expanse of patchy grass and gangly gums – could be mistaken for a public park, but it is actually filled with unmarked graves.
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Sometimes, as I wash the dishes, I wonder who was buried there. Paupers? Criminals? Forgotten soldiers?
I'm not superstitious or religious. Death, to me, is the end: the final stop. I'm too sceptical to believe in a glorious angel-filled afterlife. So whenever I walk through the cemetery (and I often do) I don't feel surrounded by souls or ghouls.
I don't find the setting spiritual or morbid. What I love – besides spotting wild rabbits and squawking magpie babies – is to weave my way through the headstones and read the inscriptions. Many of the names are Dickens-esque: Cora Drear Marxsen, Edwin Speedy, Reginald Acheson Must.
There is only one grave that I try to avoid – the one with the most heartbreaking epitaph of all:
Joseph & Sarah Barr
In memory of their beloved children
Daniel Died July 25th 1868 Aged 8 Years
Ellen Died July 28th 1868 Aged 6 Years
William Henry Died July 28th 1868 Aged 3 Years
Theresa Died July 31st 1868 Aged 10 Years
Perhaps I like living near a cemetery because it makes me appreciate life (and modern medicine). Or maybe it's just nice to have a pleasant native landscape to contemplate as I scrub bacon fat off the frying pan.
