Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

January in 2024. First time this year I have come to see your ‘home in Pictou’s cemetery, at Stella Maris.

I know you are not there –it is just a place, just a stone with your name on it. Like the stone tablets of Sumerians, and Acadians, like the stone tablet given to Moses a few thousand years later. These letters, and symbols left on them by the Old Ones are not alive anymore. No ancient gods lay claim to them, not from Ur, not from Babylon, not from Sinai. What’s left in these letters are hidden stories of love, of passion.

Under these letters, under your stone is a small container with some ashes. Gray powder in a box, nothing else. But I can’t stop coming here where I can submerge myself in my despair, wallow in my grief. Here it doesn’t bother anyone. The dead ones are dead. Silent. Sometimes a black bird looks at me from a tree branch and says something in its characteristic low and screechy voice.

It sounds like a song of the Underworld. A poem of decayed generations. Only the bird, the guardian of the cemetery knows that ancient language.

There are no other visitors here, especially this time of the year. Unless it is a funeral. Another wooden box full of bones, or smaller one with ashes, goes to the ground.

Old wooden cross with a white figure of Jesus of Joseph and Mary, who attested to prophesies of Isaiah of Kingdom coming. That cross, darkened by weather and age is strong. He does not attest to anything anymore. He is profoundly sad. Painfully sad. Sorrow emanates from his eyes and from that terrible tool of his death. Still asking: Why? Why did you lead me to this terrible, painful death, o father? What did I do to deserve such cruel punishment? Why did you forsake me, condemn me to this brutal death?

I want to talk to him, help him to quell his anguish. He was still a very young man, and did not understand. I want to tell him – don’t cry anymore. To tell him if he truly found love in Mary Magdalen or any other lovers he pursued, if he was loved and loved – it never died. Not on that cross, nor in this cemetery. That his father, his false friend Judas – they could not stop that Love, they could not erase it. It soared like an eagle, like an Angel through the Cosmos. That love, young man – if you truly were loved and loved – sang songs of Love. Eternal.

The wintery Sun came over the desolate, little cemetery. It flickered in the mud holes of the walkways, it caressed and made bright little plastic flowery arrangements on some gravestones.  Looked at your grave with my inscription: forever in my heart and smiled, too. That’s just for some passerby, maybe long after any memory of both of us would linger in anyone’s life. So he or she would have known that you were loved. And would recognize that love does conquer death. Nothing else. But She does.

Of course, you are not there, under the stone. You are in my heart, with me. All the time, everywhere. Just on that cemetery, on any cemetery, there is a special stillness of air that allows you to have these talks, these thoughts. That’s why I keep coming here. When I was very young I used to visit some special coffee shops in Warsaw, where I would write my poems on white, square, and very small paper tissues.  Now, when I am much older, I like to come to this cemetery or visit my special wild beaches I have conquered in your name and have these talks with you, and still write poems. I like it.

Before I left, went and looked at that man outstretched on this horrible cross.  I thought he wasn’t as sad as before. I hope. I hope that he got it, he understood it. That death is just that – all matter decays and dies with time. But love survives, and overcomes.  The Kingdom came through love.