Walking in Memphis

Arrival

I'm walking in Memphis
Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale
Walking in Memphis
But do I really feel the way I feel?
                          --Marc Cohn

I was in Memphis for the funeral of my partner Walter, who had died suddenly and unexpectedly from liver failure the week before. It was a horrible death; I was with him for the last excruciating seven hours of his life watching helplessly as his life slipped away, and I was devastated. I was running on adrenaline, taking care of my responsibilities. I arrived in Memphis on a sultry Friday afternoon in late summer. After crossing the I-40 Mississippi River bridge, I drove directly to the funeral home to finalize arrangements.

Upon arriving at the funeral home, I was ushered in to view Walter's body. Walter's appearance had changed since I viewed his body in the emergency room in Chicago shortly after his death. In Chicago, he looked like he was sleeping with a peaceful smile on his face.  He looked as though he were viewing Heaven.  In Memphis, his face and body were swollen, and the smile had turned into a grimace. He did not look like Walter any more. He had been embalmed in an uncomfortable position with one arm lying on his chest and the other arm tucked behind his back. He was dressed in a cheap suit with an ugly gray and white checkered shirt. I was upset. Walter's family made the funeral arrangements since I lost Health Care Power of Attorney upon Walter's death, but Walter's body had to be embalmed in Illinois before it was shipped to Memphis, and this was the condition in which his body had been received--his position could not be altered. I was in Memphis to pay for and attend Walter's funeral.

After the viewing, I was taken to see the secretary to make the final payment. She greeted me and asked me what relation was I to Walter. She told me that I could choose anything I wanted to, even spouse if we were married. I replied "partner," and she wrote that on the bill. She told me that her son was gay, and even though she "didn't agree with it," she loved him as any mother should. I asked where Walter was to be buried, and she gave me directions to the cemetery. It was directly on my way to the motel where I was staying.

I said my goodbyes to the secretary and the funeral director and headed out to find the cemetery. The road through the countryside was lined with fields of cotton, a reminder of a bygone, sorrowful era when Walter's ancestors slaved in the fields. I felt sad and ashamed.

The small cemetery was outside of the city, surrounded by fields. It had opened only two years previously and was poorly maintained. There was little grass, and water runoff from the fields had eroded the soil over the graves, creating shallow ravines and knocking over plastic grave markers. The soil had started subsiding over the caskets, creating rectangular indentations. It looked like a neglected potter's field. I searched for Walter's gravesite, but it had not been dug yet. I would not return to the cemetery or see Walter's grave again until nearly six months later. I drove to the motel and checked in.