That the cemetery in Locri is a lonely place is not a unique thing, most cemeteries are; but the loneliness seems worse here because of the neglect. Wild grasses and weeds have taken over; tombs are broken and the intense heat radiating off of every stone surface gives you the impression that the living are not welcome here. This cemetery is the final resting place of my grandfather Giuseppe. He died at the age of fifty-seven; mom was only nine years old.
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| Portrait of cemetery neglect |
Mom didn’t remember exactly where her father was entombed, her visits having been separated by decades. She remembered the general area and told dad and me to look for a dark marble tomb. After an extended search all three of us had come up empty. While dad continued his search, mom approached a man that looked like he worked there even though he wasn’t doing much of anything. Mom asked if he could tell her where someone was buried. The man took a long slow drag from his cigarette as he leaned on the iron gate. He paused. “Nome” (name)? My mom offered the name and the man repeated it slowly and methodically before taking another deep slow drag from his cigarette. The pause seemed to take forever in this summer heat; almost as if a hammer had finally dropped in his head after teetering on the edge of consciousness, his answer was offered bluntly…”no”.
With years of Canadian expectations of service poisoning her mind, my mother asked him if there was some type of registry to show where the dead were. After taking yet another long drag from his cancer stick, he admitted that there was a registry of sorts; it contained the name of the person, their date of death and the date of entombment, but not location. “Why” asked mom. The question was met with another long pause and then the predictable if ridiculous answer… “There hasn’t been time.”
Finding your dead in Italy was proving to be next to impossible. We would need help.
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