Alexandra Kathryn Mosca — Exploring Life and Death: A Writer's Journey

Yesterday, on what was a brilliant summer Sunday, I wandered the tranquil paths of two favorite cemeteries—Gate of Heaven and nearby Kensico. As I walked, I reflected on how these peaceful grounds reveal lessons about living and presence, shaping my journey that day. Amid quiet beauty and memory, I saw once again how cemeteries offer insights into life beyond their stillness.

After paying my respects at Gate of Heaven, I lingered among familiar names. I visited the graves of those I had known and paused at the plain stone of former NYC Mayor Jimmy Walker. Notably, his headstone makes no mention of his flamboyant public life.

I also visited the grave of a woman I didn’t know, but I had written about. Her monument, inscribed with Robert Frost’s line, “The Woods Are Lovely, Dark and Deep, But I Have Promises To Keep And Miles to Go Before I Sleep,” provoked reflection. The poem’s repeated final line and the anonymous date of her death added to the mystery. A small cross leaning against her monument suggested she’d recently had a visitor.

From there, the monument of Babe Ruth is always a must. It is a site where baseball memorabilia is left by visitors and today the array was particularly dazzling. After stopping at Ruth’s grave, I continued my routine by visiting Billy Martin’s nearby grave.

Deemed Baseball’s “bad boy” Martin’s monument is inscribed with the words: I may not have been the greatest Yankee to put on the uniform, but I was the proudest.

Leaving Gate of Heaven behind, I slipped into nearby Kensico Cemetery. There, sunlight filtered through ancient trees, dappling the neat grounds with gold. I paused at familiar graves to pay respects before exploring new corners. The inscriptions I read highlighted themes of loss and remembrance: “Your wings were ready, but our hearts were not.” Another: “together in life, together in heaven.” The lifespans marked by dashes brought the brevity of some lives into sharp relief.

Partway through my stroll at Kensico, I encountered a man who told me he has walked these grounds for forty years. He shared stories of some who rest here, recounting changes that have occurred over the decades. Now, he walks three laps around the pond, each lap offering a new perspective on the day and on life.

Reflecting on the entire day, I realized the cemetery offers profound lessons. Each headstone tells a story, reminding us of the impermanence of life and the lasting effects of our actions. Walking here, I found wisdom in memory, history, and the act of being present. Cemeteries are places for reflecting on life.

I wrote “Sunday in the Cemetery” to express how walking these grounds reveals a central truth: cemeteries do more than memorialize—they offer lessons for living with intention, presence, and meaning.