“Destination Unknown”
by Sarah Holloway
Here I am in Savannah, obsessed with a dead poet. The passing of time has nearly consigned a man of letters to oblivion. By hanging out in a cemetery, I’ve learned about him before that could happen. Conrad Aiken was born here in 1889. He admired Freud and Poe, and Freud in turn admired Aiken’s work. A few remember him due to a widely anthologized short story, “Silent Snow, Secret Snow,” which was also adapted as an episode of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. Some think it’s a Symbolist piece rejecting reality, others believe it’s about the onset of schizophrenia. I spend my evenings reading Aiken’s work.
When the weather’s nice, as it usually is here, I devote my mornings to Bonaventure Cemetery, where Aiken’s body lies. I walk a circuit past the Jewish area with its stars of David, an antebellum section, scores of marble angels, and row upon row of soldiers’ graves.
I’m a recent transplant from the North, a widow for a year. In this Southern place, I’m surrounded by death, live oaks, Spanish moss. Elsewhere I feel untethered, at loose ends, but Aiken and this place ground me. As I walk through the cemetery, tiny lizards dart across my path, making me smile. Everything here works together to remind me how unimportant I am in the scheme of things. What a relief!
I think of Aiken as my guide, the Virgil of Bonaventure Cemetery. Near his own grave there’s a stone bench inscribed with two lines: "Give my love to the world" and "Cosmos Mariner—Destination Unknown.” When I took a cemetery tour, the guide said Aiken wanted visitors to rest on the bench, to enjoy a libation while they watch the sun go down. I love sitting on the bench, sipping from my water bottle, imagining I’m with with my parents, that we are all guests at Conrad’s cocktail hour so much like their own ritual. After my parents died, I still had Jack, but now he’s gone, too. By which I mean invisible, yes, but I can feel my husband close to me at Bonaventure. It’s been wonderful to learn there’s no end to loving him.
Yesterday, as I sat on Aiken’s bench, I remembered a martini poem I wrote about my father’s love for my mother, a love that endured after he’d outlived most other joys in life: “red pimiento filling hollow victory” was how I described it.
Dad’s special name for my mother was “Sweeter.”
Another thing I do in Savannah is attend AA meetings. Last week, a nice fellow asked me to have coffee afterwards. It was a pleasant enough hour, but I declined his dinner invitation. I could see he was surprised—how to explain I prefer the company of the dead to romantic restaurants?
This afternoon, my friend Kate comes to visit, I’ll tell her about Aiken and bring her along to Bonaventure tomorrow morning.
* * * * *
Kate pulls out a joint once we sit down on Aiken’s bench.
“Wake and bake?” she asks. “Seems an appropriate riff on his theme.”
“It’s a little early for me, Kate.”
“Your loss.” She lights up, and I stand to survey the area, worried what might happen if a conservative Southerner should stumble upon us, but there’s no one nearby. I tell Kate that Aiken lived as a child in one of the mansions downtown. I’ll take her on the trolley tour this weekend and show her the house. When Aiken was 11, he heard two gunshots and found his parents’ bodies in their parlor. Murder-suicide—the gun hot in his father’s hand.
Kate’s weed smells delicious. The sky’s cornflower blue, no clouds today. Sunshine makes itself felt, even on this February morning. Shades of coral, crimson and white peek out of azalea buds. My neighbor told me they’ll bloom by the end of the week. In the lush undergrowth surrounding the graves, I see sparrows hopping around, exploring. A male’s singing zeet, zeet, zeet, bzz on a branch nearby.
I’m happy my friend is here, happy to share this beautiful place with her. We sit, not speaking for several minutes, taking it all in.
“What I relate to the most is that Aiken came back to Savannah after living most of his life in the northeast and the U.K.,” I say, wanting Kate to understand. “He was elderly, had been the U.S. Poet Laureate, had won the Pulitzer and a National Book Award. And the place he wanted to spend his last years was in the house where his parents died. The people who owned it wouldn’t sell to him, so he rented the house next door and lived there until his own death.”
“Whoa, that’s deadication,” Kate says and spells it out for me. She’s so clever!
Kate and I are both old enough to have survived the loss of an astonishing number of people who mattered to us. I wonder if she understands that relationships don’t end when people die.
“What’s it like being a widow?” she asks me.
“It’s much better than watching Jack suffer the way he did his last year. He’s still with me, but it’s different. It’s warmer, easier, a looser garment.”
“And yet, you hang out in a cemetery?” Kate takes my hand, smiling to soften her concern.
“And yet I do.” I squeeze her hand then pull mine away. I’d planned to show her the plot I’ve purchased, just a quarter-mile further on my circuit. Where Jack’s and my ashes will be buried together one day, our final shared home, here in Bonaventure cemetery. Ah, but that can wait—there’s no need to hurry.
Sarah Holloway lives in Savannah, GA, with her husband, dogs and lots of books. After a career in public accounting, she’s loving the writing life. She reads for Story Magazine and has published reviews in Necessary Fiction. Other recent publications include SmokeLong Quarterly's blog, Roi Fainéant, Third Street Review and The Argyle. She’s @sarahholloway.bsky.social.