Cemetery Sundays soothe those left behind

ASINGLE horse chestnut lying on the ground reminded me of a truism: no matter how strong the sun still shines this season, like all good things, must come to an end.

Tragically, so too must good people. But remembering them does not, as I was reminded on the first evening of this month.

Hundreds of people streamed uphill, past cars lining every inch of the road. Two older ladies told me they were on their way to a Cemetery Mass.

It happens every year, Billy Davis confirmed when I found him at the cemetery side entrance. As usual this wiry teetotaller was tanned and smiling, dipping in and out of his local all day for cups of tea between jobs. Here he was again, helping out with the cemetery upkeep collection.

Though it was probably one of Billy’s easier gigs, for there was no need for him to say a word. The procession made straight for the plastic bucket, dropping notes in before they climbed over the steps.

Billy asked if Cemetery Masses happen in Dublin. I had never heard of them before. But I discovered afterwards that they take place all over Ireland, often on the first Friday of August.

It hadn’t been on the radar of some locals either, not until life gave them reason to take note. Like Ben Hennessey, who runs a B&B in a gorgeous old tower on Main Street. His beloved wife, Tess, passed away earlier this year. Impeccably turned out, as always, Ben was accompanied to his first cemetery Mass by his only son, Michael.

Everyone was there, young and old, toddlers to teenagers. There were people with walking sticks and some carrying portable chairs. Many cradled homemade bouquets or pot plants in their arms.

A red-haired boy, still wearing his hurling outfit, hopped out of a passing car. He hurried towards the cemetery, spiky shoes ticktacking on the pavement, helmet under one arm and hurley in the other.

A young woman followed, one of her daughters clutching a stone with ‘Dad’ painted on it.

I asked Billy if he had family in there. Oh yes, he answered; his father and brother, cousins. “And my daughter,” he added, in a quieter voice.

There was no fanfare. No cameras. Just a thousand or more people crowded into a small country cemetery to remember their dearly departed. And to express faith and hope that they rest in His peace.

Mass started at eight, the priest’s words pouring out over the congregation: “Christ have mercy.”

“Bring light to those in darkness,” he intoned. “Let us pray.”

I left as dusk fell, knowing another day would dawn. For life, like love, goes on.