What’s on my mind? We bushwhacked in the cemetery, the other day. That’s not a reference to sex. We took a walk in the woods at the edge of our village-that-calls-itself-a-town, wandered onto what we thought was a shortcut, and got lost.
We didn’t choose the cemetery; it chose us. Not in a Just a Closer Walk with Thee sense, but in a “Help! Help! I’m lost!” sense.
Not in a “Help! Help! I’m lost because I’ve lived my life in sin!” sense, but in a “Help! Help! I’m bloody well lost and can’t find my way out of the woods!” sense.
That these particular woods border the cemetery was semi-comforting. At least, we knew where we were.
On one side of the cemetery was the road into town. Between it and us was the cemetery’s high iron gate, its heavy chain and lock visible despite the day’s bright sun.
And so, with the gate locked, we returned to the woods and began to bushwhack. The forest was dark and dense. As long as we heard cars, we knew we were near the road. Our village-that-calls-itself-a-town is the size of my coat pocket. We heard no cars, that day.
On the other side of the cemetery is the ambulance station. We heard no ambulances, that day. Alone in the woods, we heard no birds singing and no bears huffing. The only sign of life was an empty vodka bottle, over which I tripped and had a little cry. I did this twice, over the same stoo-pid bottle.
It was hard, plunging through those woods. Not quite an hour later, we found ourselves back in the cemetery. As can happen to lost hikers, we’d traveled in a circle.
(My mind’s eye pictured two sad little skeletons, found in the cemetery next August. Neighbors we’d never met would say: “They kept to themselves … They died doing what they loved to do.” Our kids would shake their heads, feeling vaguely guilty for assuming we’d snapped and gone to Vegas, unable to take mask-wearing and social-distancing one day longer.)
To my wails of “What can we do-o-o-o?” Himself said: “We’ll never give up! We’ll go to the gate and plead for help through the bars!” Neither of us said anything, but in this village-that-calls-itself-a-town, we prayed someone - anyone! - might come along to hear us.
Mumbling: “I’m hun-gry …” I trudge-trudged behind Himself, drawing ever closer to the gate.
With the sun now behind us, we saw … we saw … we saw …!
The gate was locked, for sure, but between it and the woods was an expanse of grass so broad and so welcoming that a whole herd of village idiots could easily pass from road to cemetery and back.
Indeed, we were only two village idiots, and easily walked through. With the sun in our eyes, we hadn’t seen this corridor earlier.
Our parked car was where we’d left it - near the entrance to the well-marked trail from which we’d strayed, in this village-that-calls-itself-a-town.
