litlinks 2019

Finding Peace

by Giorgia Dixon, Radford College

“Death is a Dialogue between the Spirit and the Dust.”

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

I know death. It swirls around me, mixing with the flies, at one with the dust. The people standing around me sense death too. Their bonnets and top hats tilt down as if to avoid its gaze, and I know they don’t see me. Even the horses know death is near. They shuffle nervously and stamp their hooves into this unforgiving earth. The assortment of parked carriages, crammed in the paddock corner, creak and groan mournfully in unison with their attached steeds.

It is not my choice to have come to this place, a lonely hill in Weetangera. I have been here many times before. But this time, my slick dark hair and lustrous suit are matted with the very dust that has resisted my lifelong desire to control it. I am Thomas Southwell and I am a pastoralist. I developed, cut and cultivated this land, now reshaped again as a cemetery.

I watch them lower my coffin into the roughly cut hole. I am standing amongst many gravestones, of men and women, some of children, some fresh. But mine is the freshest. And soon, that rough cut hole will be covered with earth and dust, as I will be covered with earth and dust.

I thank my family. They are the bones of my rich life. But have I left them in a precarious state? I won’t rest if they are not safe. I scrutinise each face, looking for reassurance. But I receive no comfort from their empty gazes.

Will my family endure as the head stones around me, strong against the harsh elements, perhaps only fading and staining slightly with the passage of time? Will they resist life’s bitter winds and unrelenting sun? Or will my bloodline eventually be consumed by the march of grass and trees? Who will take care of my kin, just as these cemetery lots are being lovingly tended? I ask each family member in turn but there is not one response to give me satisfaction.

My eyes fall on my wife, Mary. Familiar black hair covers her wrinkles, wrinkles magnified by her tears. She stands as straight and as strong as the majestic gum trees that dot this hill. Her black bonnet and dress, dark as ebony, seem to repel the dust. I know that she, alone, sees me. Her melancholy eyes meet mine and I know I will stay with her. I now realise that she will be courageous, and she is wise to the mistaken belief that only a man can lead a family in this difficult place.

Through this final exchange with my wife, I now realise my purpose. I was not here to shape the earth and dust in Weetangera, but to imprint my spirit on those I love. And with this realisation, I am flooded with a deep sense of serenity, and now I can let go.

Image: Southwell Family Graves, Weetangera. Sourced from Wikimedia: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Southwell_Family_Graves_Weetangera.jpg