Chapter 4 The Pilgrimage: A Gravesite Chat

A letter to my brother,

You were here with me today, sitting at the foot of our family’s grave, our British kin dating back to the mid-1800s, maybe longer. 

I probably don’t need to say it because you were here with me, but remember the day, how it was golden, blue and Irish green and how the church bells rang and rang, unleashing a lifetime of tears we’ve been holding onto?

And not having a tissue to wipe away the years and Cousin Cassandra getting bit by a horsefly or possibly a nettle, then hunting around the cemetery for a broad leaf to soothe the sting. 

And me, with my journal, trying my best to soak it all in, what it meant, what it means, to be so close, so far away, from our British roots. All these years. Never meeting our grandparents, Mary and James, but somehow knowing them from staring at their sepia toned images. Who were they, in what ways are we alike? We share the same DNA, but our stories are so different, especially after Mom and Dad left the UK to pursue a “better life”. Which it was and we are grateful.

A robin lands on a nearby gravestone, a sign a spirit is near, our cousin tells us. 

Is it you, Auntie? Grandma? Grandfather? Great grandpa Thomas? One of our uncles or baby cousin who died? Your bones have long ago turned into dust, but your essence, dear ones, is ever present. 

Uncle Jim? is that you little robin, our steady, guiding presence, chirping love with those twinkling eyes. You were the one, with your trowel and spade, who tied the gravestone of your parents. With that limp of yours, you’d dutifully hobbled down the cobblestone lane from your house on Church Lane, past The Rams Head where you’d stop for a pint and a chat, past the Parr Arms where Mom and Dad first met, to Grappenhall’s St. Wifred’s Parish Church, built more than 900 years ago.  Faithfully, devotedly, every week of your life you’d polish the stone that honored your lineage. 

Simple people. Simple times. 

Quiet and steady. They had few material possessions. But they had so much. And here we are, dear brother, complex and needy, seeking answers to questions they never thought to ask. 

The left and right perimeter have been frayed for so long. But sitting here in the damp grass, drenched in a chorus of church bells, magpies, robins and wrens, I can feel the merging, can you? Sewn together like the scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz”. Patchy. Burlap. Exposed.

To be accepted. To be loved. To feel connected. From the tip of my toes to my crown chakra. Aligned. 

Brother, how I wish you were here. The sound bath of our connected souls. It would heal you, cobble back together the knickered lad you left behind with the man you are today, freeing you so that when it’s time, you can float away and be with them without a care in the world. 

I am here for you. For them. For me, for the entire extended family. The three-prong connection at the end of an electrical wire linking our world with theirs. 

In a week I will be with you, celebrating your eldest granddaughter’s graduation from high school. Another passage, another triumph. It’s hard to believe, it’s hard to imagine that that tiny seed formed before recorded time is about to take flight  And we, dear brother, have had the good fortune to watch our baby bird soar. 

Life is such a privilege, isn’t it? To walk along the smooth cobblestones the way Dad and the rest of the clan did. To hear the banter inside the pub. To walk the bridge over the Bridgewater Canal and picture Dad and his three older brothers fishing and jumping in the green water, terrifying their younger sisters by pushing them in the sludge. Scrumping. Harvesting Cheshire potatoes from the Victory Garden, bartering for eggs from his lordship, Mr. Parr’s estate. Ghosts that bring such solace, such comfort, knowing they’re part of our story too. 

Under the spell of Grappenhall Village rain falls from the sun, drenching me in love. To be here, in our family’s village—our village—stirs every bone, every vessel, every cell, validating, grounding me in peace and freedom that this land represents. 

Enjoy every moment of your life, dear one, for it doesn’t last long, the bells whisper.

“When you’re dead, you’re dead a long time,” Dad chuckles. “Don’t get old too fast.” Ice-skate. Cycle. Follow the sun. See that jet in the sky? Be it. Leave a trail, be free. Be at peace. And know, he says, his massive smile directed at me,  “that I am with you—always.”

Brother, know that I am also with you, as you are with me.  

God rest. God peace. As we both travel on.