Tombstone Tourist

I guess I'm what people would call a taphophile. It's not a word that's very commonly used and I don't think it's ever associated with "people like me." A goth stereotype, that's who would make a real taphophile. Not boring, mundane me.

In the simplest definition, someone who is a taphophile is essentially a tombstone tourist. It's someone who enjoys spending time in cemeteries. Which I do. Ever since I lost my mom to Marfan's, I've loved cemeteries. Well, maybe that's not entirely true. I loved them when I was young, too.

When I was nine, my grandmother passed away. I didn't know her well. In fact, I had only met her once, but it was after her service when we went to visit her grave that I fell in twisted love.

I was by no means obsessed with death. I wasn't the kid who lit toys on fire just to watch them burn or the little boy ripping heads off of teddy bears then digging them graves in my backyard. No, I was a pretty normal kid. I thought baseball was the greatest thing ever invented and I had my heart set on becoming a baseball player or a vet. I loved my mommy and my bedtime was always too early. I was so willing to work to be a vet or baseball player. It was such a weird mix, I know. But that's all I ever wanted.

Nine year old Austin would probably be confused to find out that I turned out how I did. I mean, not many 22 year old guys spend their spare time hanging out among headstones. I enjoy it though, as strange as it is. I adore looking at headstones and trying to figure out just how and why a person died. Was it old age? An accident? Suicide? A disease? I never found out for sure, but I made up life stories of people I would never meet.

My favorite was couples who were buried together. No matter the age, I liked to imagine what their lives were like before meeting, while they were together, and after the other died. I knew it was hard at the end. I had seen my dad suffer through losing my mom and it was proof for me just how much he loved her. I loved her, too. More than anything in my life at that time, I loved my mom. Hers was the only life story I never had to think out, but I know if I had, it would have lasted much longer.

Sometimes I think I should be a writer. People might enjoy stories like the ones I come up with. It sure would be different from what the public is used to. I don't think I could ever do it though. I would feel guilty. I feel that these stories, they're much too special to be shared. It would feel to me as if I was sharing these deceased people's deepest secrets without their consent, even though it was all just in my head. Who knows, maybe I had some details right, but I planned on keeping my stories to myself.

Over time, I grew attached to certain headstones, certain people, certain stories. The headstones where my mom is laid to rest are gorgeous, exquisite works of art. They are masterpieces. It's an extremely odd kind of art, the kind you don't want to disturb or even look at because it's just so peaceful there on it's own. I was attached to many of the stones there.

My heart rested along with the abandoned bodies at my mom's final resting place. There was a haunting beauty there, but it never felt dark or dismal and I loved it more than anything else in the world. If I couldn't love my mom's physical being, I would love her grave and cherish the cemetery with my whole heart.

Dear god, I am such a freak.