By Bobbi Lerman

I love cemeteries. To be specific, I love old cemeteries. The more ancient the better. Modern graveyards are far too manicured and orderly with all their stones lined up with neat symmetry. Not that such places have no stories; I am sure they do. However, the residents of ancient burial sites tend to be far more talkative, if you are able to be still and hear with a fine-tuned ear. You just need to remember the old ones have been waiting, some for centuries, to have someone to stop by, sit for a spell, and listen to their stories. 

One of my favorite cemeteries is the Isle of San Michele in Venice. The best time to visit and wander is early morning before the tourists are about. The absence of human voices provides a particular peaceful silence that suffuses the air before the day takes hold. Hidden behind a large, sun-bleached, smooth-as-marble white stone wall are single graves and large crypts. They are masonry jewels that wind their way throughout the varying sections — beginning with the more modern ones at the entrance, to the old Greek, where one can stroll through Venetian history one headstone at a time.   

I have always felt there are particular locations in the world that are filled with untold stories of those not granted the chance to live out a full lifespan, and none of them are meant to be forgotten. The Isle of San Michelle is one of the places where the most die-hard skeptic would feel the presence of spirits.

First, and always, it is most important is to pay respect to the dead before asking for their stories. As I began my wanderings, I stopped here and there to lay a stone crystal or a single flower on various plots. I thanked the old ones for the opportunity to spend time among them. Though there are many famous residents of The Isle of San Michele, such as Stravinsky, Ezra Pound, and Fredrick Rolfe, it was the resting spot of Fra Mauro where I paused for a few moments to say hello. Fra Mauro was a monk who, though he never traveled the world, created the most important world map of the Middle Ages. He took time to coax stories from the abundance of traders who visited Venice, and many consider him the Google Earth of the 15th century. I consider him one of the patron saints of travelers.

While I walked around the cemetery, I am not mindful of the designs of the graves — some plain, some ornate, some large family vaults, some a simple cut headstone— but focus more on the names and dates of the deceased. There is a wide variety of nationalities and backgrounds. Some who found eternal rest on this isle were natives of Venice, while others came to start a new life or escape. I prefer the smaller stones to the large mausoleums. I look I read, until one name calls out to me with an invitation to stop and sit and hear their story.

Unlike the marked pathways, lined with lush green Cyprus trees and large ornate mausoleums, the graves of the lesser-known which fill the grassy area often receive less care or notice than others. Those stones, bunched closer together, never fail to intrigue me. On my last visit to the isle, it was a crooked, greying, white stone that drew me over. As I settled down on the soft, green, grass, I leaned forward, trying to make out the faded inscription. Apart from the resident's first name, Caterina, and the date of her birth of 1809, the remainder of the inscription had been worn away by the elements and time

My brain raced with anticipation. To still my mind, I closed my eyes and breathed in the age-old air. I listened to the soft rustle of wind through the trees and to the birdsong, welcoming the sacred silence that filled me. Somehow, though I was not able to explain it even to myself, I knew with absolute certainty that Caterina’s was the story meant to come to me that day. 

As I rubbed some dirt from Caterina’s stone, clear, vivid images bombarded me. First came the picture of an orphan child, fast followed by a soldier’s wife. She was a protector of the cities that many abandoned, and their orphaned children. She had an older sister who was one of Venice’s most renowned courtesans. Caterina’s long-unused voice continued to whisper to me while I sat with my hand on her stone in the warm Venetian sun. 

My imagination? Most would agree, but I am not so sure. I know that beforehand I had not the slightest hint of information about this Venetian woman who had been dead for over two hundred years. What I knew was that her tale felt as real to me as if she had come through the curtain of time to sit beside me. 

As Caterina’s tale continued to unfold, I dozed, my head leaning against my arms that were folded upon the top of her stone. I waked to the sound of heavy feet and human voices that drowned out the natural sounds of the isle and the soothing murmur of Caterina’s voice.  The intrusion of the present chased the past back in time. I slipped my sandals back on and slowly made my way to where I was to be ferried back to the main lagoon of Venice proper. Standing on the deck's farthest edge I watched as the Isle of San Michele became a speck on the brilliant blue horizon. I smiled. I had my story.

Bobbi Lerman’s writing encompasses travel, personal essay, and historical medieval roman with a touch of the paranormal. Bobbi is the founder of Scribbler’s Ink, an active online community and website offering interviews with authors, writing tips, daily prompts, workshops and writing retreats. She currently lives in a small town north of Boston with her husband and Skye her cat. You can find her on Facebook and on scribblersink.com.

Photo: By Rogi Lensing - Own work, CC BY 3.0