The Cities of the Dead
written by: Marcelle Rayner
It is the earliest flight leaving George Bush International I can take to get to New Orleans. It is Friday, October 31st, and I am going to visit the cities of the dead.
The above-ground cemeteries in New Orleans are some of its most visited sites by tourists.
I am going there for another tradition. Every October 30, the cemeteries all over town are made accessible so that residents can visit their departed loved ones interred there: to clean the facades, refurbish them, or simply to bring flowers prior to All Saints and All Souls Days on November 1 and 2.
Thus, it had been the tradition for my mother and me to visit three cemeteries and two mausoleums for the past twenty + years to honor our nearest and dearest. This year would be different as I am making the trek alone. Mother had become a resident of her own real estate there almost a year ago.
The first part of the tradition had been to stop at Perino’s Garden Center to pick up potted chrysanthemums. I decide this year to bring fresh flowers. I stop at Rouse’s Market and pick out six bouquets of roses in a variety of colors.
First stop is St. Louis #3 on Esplanade Avenue. The tomb is a smaller structure along the outer perimeter. It has been there for many, many years, and I never knew any of the souls buried there. My mother’s father was there, though. She was only nine years old when he died, leaving her mother with five small children.
There are two urns on either side of the “entrance.” I put orange stems in each. Someone else had left a small bouquet, possibly my uncle, Grandpa’s last living child.
“Those really brighten it up!”
Startled, I turn to see who had spoken. He is a youngish man, dressed in a suit and tie.
“Grandpa?”
“Your mother thought you would come. She thought it was time we met.”
“How?”
“Our spirits are always nearby. We don’t generally show ourselves, but we can if we wish.
I wonder what’s going to happen to this old place. No one’s been buried here since 1947.”
“I have the title, Grandpa. I went through the process to get it from the archdiocese. The family knows you are here.”
“Ah, good girl.”
“I have to go now, Grandpa.”
I love saying the name of this person who had been a shadow all my life.
Next, I drive to Greenwood. This tomb is always a little difficult to locate, being in the middle of a “block,” but I have the directions in my phone notes. The tomb started as a simple flat but has been added to over time, so is a bit of a jumble. My father’s parents are here, plus a brother and his wife. My grandmother’s parents are here also, and a few others.
I place the yellow roses in the vase and walk to the spigot to get some water. Returning, I am greeted by a very tall woman, dressed as a flapper.
“Your grandmother always loved yellow.”
“Yes, I know. I always bring yellow for Memere.”
I look at all the names on the tallish structure.
“Great-aunt Julia?”
“How did you guess?”
“I have your diary. It’s quite tattered, but clearly you had a great number of friends.”
“I was quite the party girl in my time.
So you have my diary?”
“Yes, and a little silver bag. Memere cherished these things from you.”
“She was like my own daughter. She and her mother lived with me for a while after your grandfather died in that terrible train accident. She was only 3 months old when it happened.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Never forget that you come from strong women.”
I walk back to my car as in a dream, wondering who I will meet next.
My great-grandfather’s tomb in Metairie Cemetery is large, impressive, with STEWART carved in large script across the lintel. He must have known that it would need to house his many descendants.
I personally knew most of the people interred here. Last year, when I visited, however, there was a name engraved on the marble that I didn’t recognize. Turned out, a stranger had been placed here by mistake! My uncle had called the management to task; the ashes had been relocated by the interloper’s family, and the slab had been replaced with the name removed.
I touched the spot where the name had been.
A movement catches my eye, and I notice a young man pulling weeds from the cracks in the sidewalk. I look more closely.
“George?”
He looks up and studies me.
“Cousin Sybil? My, you’ve aged!”
“That’s what happens as you progress on this side of the grave.”
“We were all so happy that you noticed that stranger who was placed in the crypt. We tried to determine how he was related, but he was not open to our questions. The neighborhood was quite scandalized that such a thing could happen.
It became a little inside joke: ‘People just dying to join our family.'”
I place the white roses in the urn already holding water and kneel to say a prayer. I wait a beat. It is peaceful here. The sun is bright. I muse on the lives of my other cousins buried here, all younger than I, all long dead.
George returns to his chore.
“I must leave now, George. Tell Grandma that I met Grandpa this morning.”
I never understood why Grandma was not placed in the crypt with Grandpa.
I will visit Mom and Dad now in the mausoleum.
I take a picture of the engraving of Mom’s name on the slab to send to my siblings. None of us have been here since her burial. We all live out of town now. I place the pink roses in the bench vase.
I linger awhile, hoping my parents will make an appearance, but they do not.
“Everything all right?” The mausoleum attendant asks. She is wandering the corridors as there are many visitors today.
“I was just taking a picture of my parents’ slot for my siblings. Mom is here for not quite a year.
I was wondering if they were happy being reunited – my parents.”
“I don’t think it matters as much there as we think it does here. Much more wonderful things to consider there.”
I like that thought, wish her a good day, and go to my last stop.
Here I take out the small bottle of Pinch scotch, two plastic glasses, and the red roses that are my tradition to bring to my husband. Usually, I would bring a folding chair, but I don’t live here anymore.
I clear a place on the flower bench to sit and pour us each two fingers.
This is an open-air mausoleum. When we purchased the spot, he said he wanted to be up high, closer to heaven.
I look up at my husband’s slot and raise a toast.
“Hi, kiddo. I’m back. I guess you know I live in Texas now. Near the children.
You have a new great-granddaughter born this year. And we just found out that there will be a great-grandson come this May.
You’ve missed so much.”
Sipping my scotch, I start to cry.
After a bit, I check my watch, finish the scotch.
“I have a plane to catch. See you next year.”
I take one of the roses and start to walk away when I hear a voice as clear as if standing right next to me.
“Don’t cry now, Sybil. You know I’m always with you.”
I turn, and he is standing there, healthy and strong again, raising his scotch in a toast. I blow a kiss.
It’s been an exciting day. I doubt I will ever share the details with anyone, but, for sure, I will never again think of these as the cities of the “dead!”
- The Cities of the Dead - December 31, 2025
