vocation

I watch over the graves. I have always watched. I witness the care the villagers give them. The effort they spend, without question, to keep them free from disturbance. The reverence they show unendingly. The everyday presence the graves have in the daily life of the town is celebrated.

These are the graves are my friends. A source of comfort and guidance comes from them. Emanates from them, seeps from them. I do not forget.

I come this time with the youngest of my female descendants. She brings me and I am grateful. She does not see this pilgrimage as anything other than a duty. Her mother asked her plainly but then had to niggle her into it. She intends to complete this task and be free of any further responsibility, to her mother and to me. Her mother was the same when it was her turn to bring me. 

I understand. The villagers understand. My friends in their graves understand.

She has done well to get here. The journey is arduous, mainly because of the distance, but it is not intolerable. Over the years it has not changed much. It is not the terrain or foreignness that threatens to defeat my progeny's intentions. It is the strangeness of it.

We can now see the village; much the same as it was when I was last here. The village people come out to welcome us. She seems revived by the sight of them, relieved. They honour her but treat her simply, as they would anyone returning home. They want her to be at ease, to be comfortable. There is no rush, they are patient and they wish to savour our arrival. They have a room ready for her, a space to herself. She will need it. What she has brought us here for will disturb her.

The next morning, without hurry, the village women come for us. Once we are all gathered together they escort us to the cemetery. The men and children are waiting for us outside the cemetery gates. We women, with an unspoken intent, enter and walk amongst the graves. We stop at mine.

She kneels beside me. No one offers her anything to kneel on. She reaches over and takes up a handful of dirt from my grave, as her mother had instructed her to do. She looks at the village women in search of approval. She sees no signs of encouragement or caution from them. It is for her to do. She stands up, holding the handful of dirt above her head. She opens her hand with thoughtfulness, laced liberally with a sense of the ridiculous, and lets the dirt sprinkle over her. Her mother tutored her well. 

The village women circle around her and judiciously dust the dirt from her. I watch her allow the many hands touch her. By the time the women finish not a speck of earth remains on her. The village men and children break into exuberant song and welcome us as we proceed back to the cemetery gates. 

She thinks that this is about respect for a weird tradition. An obligation she will fulfil and can then forget. But she feels more obligated, not less. Her mother tried to prepare her but she had not believed. 

She cannot contain herself any longer.  As we slowly pass through the cemetery gates she turns to a village woman walking beside her.  The woman is similar in age to herself.

 ‘What has gone on here?’ She says. ‘My mother told me she would explain when I got home but I’d like to know now. There is something important here that I am missing.’

‘Your mother must have worried about frightening you for her not to tell you,’ comes the woman’s reply, ‘are you sure you want to know right now?’

‘I think so.’ She says.

‘Rest here with me then.’ The woman says, indicating a nearby low bench.  ‘I will ask you a question, then you ask me one, alright?’ They sit down together, each half turned towards the other. A calm descends over them despite the festivities that are beginning.

‘What do you do?’ The village woman asks her with great softness. ‘Do you follow in your mother’s footsteps?’

‘I do. Like her I am a nurse. What do you do?’ She hopes to deflect the conversation away from herself. She wants some time for her mind to catch up.

‘I am a nurse to, like you and the women here in this village today. Most of us do not live here. Over many generations we have spread to all parts of the world but we come here once in every generation, with our men and children. We come when the women of your family visit. My mother tells me of when your mother came. My grandmother tells of when your grandmother came.’ 

She is silent so the village woman continues with another question.

‘Do you know who we buried here, in this cemetery?’ She moves to put her arm around my precious descendant. 

‘Soldiers, aren’t they?’

‘No. They are the women from this village. Carer is a good name for what they were at the start. The soldiers, who they tended, lie in unmarked graves beneath our fields. You are not the only one to think the graves belong to soldiers, we choose to let people believe it is so.’ 

The village woman pauses, watching her, still holding her, waiting for her question. One does not come so the woman starts speaking again.

‘That long time ago soldiers were left to die where they fell. No one knew any better. Here is where that changed. Tell me, are you good, good at nursing?’ 

‘I am. It is all I have ever wanted to do.’ She answers.

‘That is how it is with me, with the women of this village. Your ancestor, buried here with our women, made us this way. She dared us, furnished us with the courage to face the pain of others. We do not forget her. Today we see her again, beside you. From today you will see her too. You will see her beside your mother and you will see her beside your daughter when you have her.’ 

‘You mean she is she here, now?’ My girl says, her face pale. She raises her hand to her mouth and draws a breath through her open fingers.

‘Of course.’ They stand up from the bench together, arm in arm, and turn towards me.

‘So this is why I had to come, so I could see her?’ She whispers.

‘Yes, but also you had to come so that I could see her. You had to come. Your mother had to come so that my mother could see. My daughter will see her when your daughter comes.’

‘But what does it mean?' She whispers back to the village woman, still looking at me.

‘Nursing is within you, always was. It is also that way for me. But seeing her, bringing her to us, ensures that what started here will go on. It will be passed on, taught, shared, never forgotten.' With that said, without any further questions, the three of us move off to join the celebrations.

She knows now. Knows that since me there has been a woman in every generation of my family. She knows that my brave friends from a time long ago have had a woman in each generation of their families. She knows our vocation started here. She knows now how it continues on.