Field of Stones

There’s a haunted hill in East Los Angeles where I sometimes go to look at stones and brood. There are angels and Virgins carved in granite, their faces serene. There are stone crosses, many of them Celtic. The old Irish families of Los Angeles are buried there. It is the final resting place of my father, my grandfather and my great-grandfather.

I came very late one day last week. The sun was setting and the gates would soon close. But it was the eighth anniversary of my father’s death. A hurried visit was better than none at all.

I don’t put great stock in gravesite visits, at least not the rational part of me. But I find myself drawn to this place at times. I come to talk to my father. I can talk to him anywhere, of course, but I come to the haunted ground for anniversaries and for times when the conversation is serious.

I had a health crisis myself a few years after his death and came to this field of stones back then to talk with him about it. It helped me focus. The memories of the stoicism and courage with which he faced his own illnesses and physical crises came back to me with great clarity there. Standing there talking to him, I made the decisions I had to make for myself.

There was no crisis this time, just the anniversary. We talked as the stones took on a reddish hue. It came to me that I now understood better how he must have felt when he was in his mid-fifties, as I am now, and still with heavy loads to carry at work and as a parent. Things that seemed unclear then were clear to me now. Things that were invisible then were now very much in sight.

I reflected on how much I missed him, but I also reflected on his persistence – the ways in which he always seems to be with me. Even now, he is a vivid presence and comfort in times of trouble, just as he was in life. I often think back to the things he did and said in life and can still see his expressions and hear the pleasant timbre of his voice. His presence is no less vivid to me when I am at my best. Perhaps those are the moments when my sense of him is strongest.

It was almost dark when we finished our talk and I turned and walked carefully through the stones and back to my car. I made it out just before the gates were closed. I rode the freeways home with a sense of peace.