Fox at Dusk

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Once when my sister Jackie was visiting years ago we decided to go for a walk down Thirteenth Avenue to an almost forgotten old cemetery. The setting sun was in our eyes as we walked west, but when we picked our way under a canopy of trees into the graveyard, it was dusky.

We were always interested in studying old gravestones. This cemetery had WWI and WWII veterans’ graves. Several family gravestones were dated fall of 1918, probably casualties of the terrible flu epidemic. Some gravestones were toppled by tree roots, others so overgrown we couldn’t read them, especially in the dim light. The engraving on some slabs was decipherable if you studied them carefully and used your imagination. Others were cracked by large trees growing beside them, or vines wrapping around them. Some were covered with lichen.

It seemed like a forgotten cemetery. A few family names I recognized; most were unknown to me. We made up stories about some, mourned over a baby’s grave, and wondered if family members ever came to visit and remember. Only a few scattered and faded plastic flowers spoke of any attention, though there were two or three graves that were dated in the last ten years. I remembered seeing funeral processions drive past our house.

The dirt road around the little cemetery, though navigable, was overhung by oak and sweetgum. We were finding our way back to the street when we both stopped and held our breath. There, only a few feet away, was a red fox, pointed ears erect, sitting like a grave statue as if hoping we wouldn’t notice him. We watched until he stealthily slipped away, bushy tail disappearing quickly into the shadows.

It was a dark, forgotten cemetery, rich with stories. But what we talked about on our return walk was that little fox–how old he might be, where his den was, and how often he ever saw human visitors. It was nice to think that the graves were overseen by a wily red fox.