Meredith’s Musings | Ancient Epigraphs

article by Meredith McKinnie

As we meandered through the uncrowded London streets that Sunday morning, I glanced at Husband looking up randomly from Google Maps to confirm landmarks. We were headed to Brompton Cemetery in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Established in 1840, Brompton features over 35,000 monuments and is the burial site of 250,000 people. When I first mentioned to Husband that I put a cemetery on the itinerary, he didn’t question me. We faced a hard, unexpected death that year when my little sister passed, and I assume he thought I was dealing with the grief in my own way. Perhaps I was, and still am. Drawn to Europe by its longstanding history that dwarfs America’s timeline, I longed to see how people hundreds of years ago honored the dead, how Europeans worded those ancient epigraphs, and how they carved love into tombstones.

In America, or at least in my corner of the South, I think of cemeteries in the context of religion, as they are frequently adjacent churches, with waist-high tombstones that force us to look down at the deceased. Some bear a marking barely elevated from the ground, and far too many are unacknowledged at all. In contrast, Brompton Cemetery’s monuments forced me to lift my chin toward the sky, battling the sun to decipher dedications and the names of the dead. Ravens and magpies soared through the trees along the property, randomly landing on angel monuments and commanding our attention. You would think the black birds would add an ominous quality to the atmosphere, but they did the opposite – they showcased life and movement, a reminder of what death leaves behind. We found the gravesites of Dr. John Snow, the father of anesthesia, and Emmeline Pankhurst, the feminist who fought for women’s right to vote in England. As we admired the craftsmanship of the sky-high structures, we stumbled upon a plaque from the cemetery reminding us of the price of poverty, that a towering monument was a luxury reserved for those who could afford it. I thought, “Even in death, we idolize the rich.”

Unlike the church cemeteries I’ve visited here at home, this burial site was woven into the fabric of the city. The imposing stone walls guard the property and open on either end with royal-esque black iron gates, with an operating café just inside. The blacktop roads running through the monuments are not abandoned, but sparsely populated by runners, dog walkers, and slow strollers. No one looked sad or even somber, but more like passersby on a quiet street. The wildflowers edged through the gaps in the concrete, another sign of life in a site dedicated to post-life. Husband and I roamed for an hour or so and could have stayed much longer. We marveled at the stones commemorating those from the mid-1800s. Something about the expansive time and distance put my grief into perspective. While the hurt of losing my sister may feel unique to me, loss is a universal experience, only made relevant by the past.

In Paris, we visited two more – Pere Lachaise and Montparnasse. The French cemeteries relied on lower walls, ensconced in the fabric of the city. In Pere Lachaise, we found Simone de Beauvoir’s headstone, covered in lipstick kisses and dried roses. At Montparnasse, we searched for authors Gertrude Stein and Richard Wright, for the humble site of Jim Morrison from The Doors. A metal gate surrounded the Morrison perimeter – fans had decorated the metal with music stickers and band memorabilia. The latter cemetery was built on a hill, and traversing the property required us climbing hundreds of feet into its corners. While standing beside one monument, we would look down on a thousand others. I thought, Should a cemetery be this beautiful? Should maybe all cemeteries be this beautiful? We spoke few words and kept veering away from one another only to stumble upon one another later along the path. Some of the monuments stretched several stories high. I wondered if the sites on higher ground cost more, if Parisians coveted a burial close to the clouds. Oscar Wilde’s monument was surrounded by a glass wall, a barrier for those who might tarnish the sculpture. I thought of celebrities being hounded by the public, and how even in death, people want to get close. It’s why I was there.

The irony of investing so much time in these cemeteries is not lost on me. I rarely visit tombstones of people I knew in my life, finding no comfort in staring at a stone. But here, among deceased strangers, I found just that. I found community and peace that transcended time and circumstance.