When fear knocked, faith answered. The door
opened and no one was there.
-Anonymous
It was many months before I had the courage to walk from the side of the road where a cross was erected in Sara’s memory to the tiny grave where her battered body was laid. Newspaper accounts often refer to a “shallow grave” where a body is found, as if the digger were in too much of a hurry to create a proper resting place. It always makes me think of someone throwing away a bag of garbage, discarding something they no longer need. In all my years of writing about death, I’d never actually looked upon one of these “shallow graves.” I felt compelled to see where Sara had perhaps taken her last breaths.
I hadn’t planned to go there the day I did. I just went, inexplicably drawn by a need I still don’t comprehend. I might have waited for a clear, sunny day to trudge through the chest-high weeds to Sara’s spot but, as it turned out, it was dark and cold and wet. I stood for a long time at the edge of the grass, wondering where in the football field-sized lot her body had been left. I felt conspicuous, at the edge of the street where she lived, wondering whether anyone inside the quiet houses was watching me. I had no idea what I would say if anyone asked why I was there. I’d been there many times before in my capacity as a reporter but this was personal. I had no words to explain it.
I stared for a long time at the memorial to Sara that was now wind-beaten and neglected. Stuffed bears, faded poems, rosary beads and candles were covered with dirt. I cleared away some of the weeds and straightened the trinkets left around the cross. It seemed wrong to leave her mementos in disarray. It also gave me something to do while I waited in vain for the purpose of my being there to reveal itself. I got no answer, no sign. My Catholic upbringing came out and I made the sign of the cross before climbing through the chicken-wire fence.
I don’t know how I found my way to Sara’s grave but I walked as if I knew exactly where it was. Though the weeds in places were up to my chest, I found the small clearing without hesitation. It came upon me so suddenly I almost stepped right into the tiny hole. There was no mistaking it was child-sized. My heart clenched as the significance of it overcame me. I felt weak. I thought I could see in which end, the more narrow one, her head had been placed. I wondered about the positioning of her body, her arms and hands. I wondered about her eyes, were they opened or closed. Could she see the night sky above as she lay dying. Or was the life in her already gone?
Sara’s body was long gone but I felt her spirit still lingered, as if it had seeped into the dirt below and been lifted up on the warm breeze through the grass. This was her spot now. She claimed it with her life. But it was not an angry or vengeful presence that I felt around me. Instead, I felt embraced by the joyful exuberance and love only a child seems able to generate. The joy was hers, not mine. I felt consumed by the horror of what had happened in this place. Her spirit, it seemed, had already moved beyond any pain. I can’t explain how these ideas came to me, I only know that they came strongly and persistently, in spite of my own resistance and reluctance. I stayed for a long time at the side of the grave, breathing in a deeper feeling of peace and acceptance than I believe I have ever felt. Again, the acceptance seemed to come from her because it was not mine. I still clung to what had happened. She, it seemed, had found another reality entirely, free of all care and concern, smiling down at the world and laughing, good naturedly, not mockingly, at our struggles. None of this represents any personal belief system I have. It is simply what I experienced while I was there.
I have no idea how much time passed while I sat there with Sara. I was cold and it seemed time to go. I touched my hand to the dirt wall inside the tiny grave and said goodbye.