Who Were You, Isabella?

I went for a walk today and wandered into the old churchyard at Norbury. For some reason my eye was caught by a headstone over on the south side, so I went and read it.

It was the grave of one Isabella, who died on August 9^th 1870, aged twenty six. Beneath her name, a second Isabella was inscribed. She had been born on August 2^nd 1870, so it seemed reasonable to suspect that the demise of the mother had been related in some way to the birth of her daughter. The daughter had subsequently died at age thirty six, but it wasn’t her I felt drawn to. It was her mother. I had an image of a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair arranged in ringlets. She was looking at me with a friendly and knowing smile. I stood there for some time, thinking little but feeling a sense of connection.

Eventually I pulled myself away and considered why I should have felt that way. I find old headstones interesting to read, but I don’t recall ever having felt captivated by the occupant of the grave before. At first I realised there was a coincidence of dates, because August 9^th was also the date of my mother’s death. That didn’t feel right; I’m sure it had more to do with the name.

I’ve always had a fondness for the name Isabella; in fact, I can even say that I’ve occasionally felt that I should be married to someone of that name. It speaks of feminine strength, but it also holds the promise of mystery. There is something both beautiful and gothic about it. Isabella is the one whose body is lying impatiently in the crypt, awaiting reunion with her lover. I feel similarly about the name Abigail, but her ghostly qualities are somehow more prosaic than gothic.

I left the churchyard feeling a mild sense of separation. Some small part of me didn’t want to leave Isabella. I even said goodbye to her and promised I would visit again. Isn’t that odd?

So, who were you, my lady? Or maybe I should be asking ‘who are you?’