The Cemetery by the Sea

I turned 23 yesterday. I also met an interesting man. His name was Donal Newman. He is ninety years old.

I had some time to myself during the afternoon of the first day of my 23rd year, so I took a walk down by sea. The waves lapped up onto the rocks and boats filled the harbor. It was race day. Sailboats raced in the wind, ever so slowly crossing and passing each other, striving to become a small dot on the horizon for their competitors. I walked steadily along the shore.

I passed a child leaping across the rocks.

The path by the sea ended. The boats drifted further and further into the blue vastness, and then disappeared. I curved to the right onto a new path and gazed up at the monument perched atop the hill above me.

It was a cemetery. By the sea.

A lone white labrador trotted up beside me. He had splashed in the waves, run through the grass, pranced through the rocks. He was free. And happy.

 We walked into the cemetery together.

The grass was overgrown. It looked a little bit like a wild garden. But it was a well-loved garden. Every stone had a name, and a wife, or a father, or a daughter. A large stone building stood triumphantly in the middle. Inside was a secret area, knowing no sound but the quietness of nature. It had a window to the sea.

On the outside there was a man. His name was Donal Newman. He was ninety years old.

Donal Newman stood silently in front of a grave. He had a green watering can at his feet. His head was lowered. His hands were behind his back.

A tear rolled down my face.

Donal startled me from behind. He asked if I was visiting a loved one. I told him I like cemeteries...

Donal was married for 55 years. He and his wife Patricia worked in the Post Office. She died two years ago from cancer. His handicapped son died a few months later.

"We had a great life." Donal told me.

The boats appeared on the horizon again, the small white dots growing steadily bigger as they sailed inland.

His whole family is buried in that cemetery. They've been there for centuries. 

I walked away, got in my car, drove down the road. A man in an electric wheel chair was rolling down the street, water canister in the front basket.

It was Donal. He is ninety years old. He waters his wife's flowers every day. He had a great life.