The Tree Of Sadness

This is my story of a cemetery near my house, the Green Hill Cemetery.

The Green Hill Cemetery sat smack dab in the middle of the small town, taking up as many as twenty city blocks. It was ancient, with most of the stones so old, that only faint indentations could be seen on the surface. People long forgotten as if they had never existed at all. Dubbed Chestnut Hill by the locals, tall chestnut trees stood in the cemetery in all stages of growth.

From the oldest, rotting elders with their branches littering the ground, to the smallest of saplings sprouting between the stones. Resting forever were the founding families of the town, the names on the stones complimenting the names on the street signs in remembrance. The most important of families housed forever in great granite mausoleums and towering pillars of stone.

Everyday, one woman walked alone among stones, stopping every now and then to read and epitaph or two, then continuing on her way. She always took the same route, around the Church St. side of the cemetery, then to the back where the oldest stones sat either fallen or leaning precariously. She made her way around the perimeter, ending up in the same spot everyday, where she would stop.

The spot was called Baby Hill. At the turn of the century, before vaccinations, or antibiotics, some of the worst plaques in the world wiped out hundreds of thousands of people, most of them children. It was on this spot that the children were buried.

Hundreds of little markers with a number on them were set on a small hill. The number, listed in city hall in the Records office, told the child’s name, parents, and how the child died. All around the hill were other stones, hundreds of them, of children who succumbed to the deadly diseases that were rampant at that time.

The woman would sit under an old Chestnut tree, feeling the sadness of her surroundings, letting it overwhelm her. She cried for all of the children, but mostly, for the mothers who lost their children, as she had lost her own. Wailing and moaning, her cries almost tangible as they filled the air, she would sit like this for hours.

A man and his son walked their dog one evening, choosing the cemetery that day for their stroll. They came upon Baby Hill, the man feeling uncomfortable even walking by. Their dog, Tank, suddenly stopped and barked crazily, hair standing in a ridge down his back and tail.

“Come on, Tank, let’s go!” the man urged, pulling on the lease in an attempt to avert the dog’s attention.

“Daddy, he’s barking at the lady over there, sitting under the tree,” the child told him.

The man looked to where his son was pointing, and saw no one. “There’s no one by the tree, son, let’s go.”

“But she’s right there, daddy, can’t you see her? She’s crying, really really hard,” the boy insisted.

The man felt chills run up his spine like an icy hand. His son was pointing to an empty spot by the tree. He quickly walked out of the cemetery and never returned. 
The woman watched them leave, then stood up, and continued her walking.

© Copyright 2014 Lisa Doesburg. All rights reserved.

Author's Note

The photo at the beginning of the story is the real Green Hill Cemetery that I took myself. I have spent many years in this cemetery, since the age of 8, walking, playing, partying, and my first kiss. Established in 1858, it encompasses 14,860 individual plots.