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Though hundreds of fieldstone walls exist across New England, this one is different. As I cruised on my bike, searching for a gate, the sheer height of the stacked stones meant I was looking almost straight up to see the trees peeping over the edge of the Swan Point Cemetery wall. No casual farmer stacked these boulders; only cranes could do such a thing. When I was little, my mom would send me to daycare on an old farm, where tiny hands attempted to clamber and undo what calloused hands had constructed centuries before. These rocks are much more grandiose than those smaller, more practical walls and are free of creeping moss and time. There might be a legacy of work here, but it’s hiding under the money it takes to keep such a thing “clean.” I find the perfectly painted wrought-iron gate and turn in.
Swan Point Cemetery is a stunningly picturesque place in the original, artificially constructed “unconstructed nature” sense of the word. Gentle sloping hills make Providence in miniature, with paths dipping in and out of sight. I hear the babbling of what is undoubtedly an asymmetric little pond. Lining the smooth and rolling paths are scattered American dogwoods, pin oaks, false cypress, and honeylocust. English Holly sits by almost every road sign. There are towering eastern white pines and younger trees in suspiciously symmetrical rings. There are neat name tags attached to each tree.
One of the tallest oaks drops a leaf on my head. These ancient trees have been quietly watching the dead from before this country was a country. They wave a solemn hello in the breeze. They are still getting used to these name tags thrust upon them. I can see a cedar slowly attempting to swallow hers as she greets me. Trees are the great watchers of change, a quiet legacy.
The chapel that greets me is freshly power-washed with high, neo-gothic windows letting autumnal light into the mid-century modern pews. The crows and the robins debate loudly in the branches, but here, on the ground level, I am very much the only visitor.
***
My isolation here would have been unusual just over a century ago. During Victorian times, a cemetery so sprawling and pretty would never have been so quiet, especially near a city. One of the few designated green spaces in a rapidly industrializing world, cemeteries were quiet, clean, and full of picnics. People would have meals with their recently departed loved ones or sometimes simply enjoy the ambiance and fresh air available there.
As the 1920s brought a decline in young deaths and a proliferation of new centers for youth socialization, the trend died down to only the more permanent residents. Today, many of the more expensive cemeteries have strict anti-picnic rules; heaven forbid the lawns of the dead looked lively. The dead of rich families get more green space in death than the average city citizen gets in life.
Another living soul greets me as I round the corner of the chapel: a man in a pale blue shirt, in his early-mid twenties, digging away at a patch of graves. 10 A.M. feels a little early for grave robbing, but maybe he is more of a morning person than I am. Always a possibility. The actual hole itself is hidden behind the bed of his truck, and I inch closer to get a view, hiding behind my notebook in case I need to pretend I didn’t see anything.
But there is no body sticking out, nor a prybar in the area. The man wears a big name tag that reads “Anthony.” I ask him what he is doing.
“Digging the foundation for a new plaque that’s going in. I’m working towards being the head of the foundation department.”
***
When the pandemic started in 2020, I took up running to get outside, seeking a foundation for my crumbling mental health and routine. My Saturday run route passed my best friend’s house on the other side of town. She hated running, but after a month of never leaving her room, she, too, agreed that it might be nice to leave the house.
The Northboro’s (population 15,000) oldest graveyard was only a half mile away, and it became our usual haunt. We would walk the cracked pavement of the paths and visit her grandfather before climbing to the old section, the one tucked directly behind the church. Under the shade of towering eastern pines, many of the gravestones bore names only, with half-legible letters peering through the moss. The small stones simply read BABY. There was no one of particular historical note, but a few of the wealthier settlers had more elaborate tombs, one even featuring a stylized angel.
Unimportant to the rest of the world, they were important to us. We would sweep away the pine needles, dig our feet into the soft mud to say we were there, and leave with moss under our fingernails. We owed our world, however small, to them. Our founders’ names were scrubbed from the stone by time; we honored them anyway.
***
Back in the present, Anthony doesn’t seem to be a grave robber, so I ask him to point me to the grave of H.P. Lovecraft, one of Providence’s most famous and racist authors. He says it’s a quarter mile into the cemetery. I gladly accept a ride in the truck and move a stained sweatshirt, a half-eaten tube of Pringles, and a measuring tape to the floor of the passenger side. The buckle sticks.
“Do I need to buckle in for this?”
“Nah, this thing doesn’t go above 25 anyway.”
Anthony has been working at Swan Point since May, when he quit his job as a line cook to join his friend who worked for groundskeeping. He tells me he started on the power washing squad. He drives with one hand and gestures towards various gravesites as we pass.
“Yeah, I’m only supposed to wash the graves that we get money for, but if I see a real grimy one, I’ll hit it anyway. What if the family comes by, ya know? It’s expensive as it is just to get buried here.”
There is an unspoken sense that people like us don’t get buried here, and when they did, there was no money left over for upkeep. Ionic and Corinthian columns turn graves into little temples, with giant obelisks stretching over our heads and full mausoleums resting on every other corner. I catch glimpses of modern monuments and a few simpler, often dirty headstones—there is only so much one man could do in a cemetery that stretches on for acres.
Anthony parks the truck by a stretch of tiny headstones next to a granite obelisk. Even with his pointing, it takes me a moment to find the marker.
“I need to be getting back now, but if you want a ride back, call the number, and security will come pick you up.” Anthony waves as he drives off, the engine sputtering cheerily.
The grave is rather plain-looking. The only things that make it stand apart are the offerings of pens and seashells. I expected more pomp, more offerings, and more feeling from myself—reverence or hatred, maybe. Even when I realized the large obelisk in front of his grave was also dedicated to him, I wasn’t surprised or disappointed. He, like the walls of this place, was only referencing modesty.
I feel the sun on my face, the dew soaking my boots, and a mild annoyance at the idea of wet socks. Lovecraft packed his legacy full of novel-writing techniques, but also fear and hatred. The rest of us are still laying the foundation for our memorial, wondering what the trees will one day say in remembrance of us. I pocket a ginkgo leaf to add to my notes and begin the walk back.
I wonder if Anthony would be willing to give a second interview.
Sole Magazine