We were two days out of Paris, traveling toward Belgium along the river Oise. Dwight was piloting the boat while I leafed through our guide trying to find something interesting to see on a drizzly day. And there it was, the town of Auvers-sur-Oise, where Vincent Van Gogh went for treatment with Dr. Gachet, where Vincent shot himself and where he and his loyal brother, Theo, are buried. Stop the boat, it's time for a pilgrimage! We tied to the town's good solid dock, made sure the cat's bowls were full, put on our foulies and set off for the cemetery.
Not even the light rain that day could take away the town's charm or our delight at being there. Although it was late in the season Auvers was filled with flowers; overflowing baskets of geraniums and petunias hung from every light post. The wet streets even managed to glisten in the afternoon light. It was a quiet day with few cars or people around to disturb our romantic vision of the place. The road to the cemetery took us right by Vincent's church; a treat that nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Past the church a two lane road led out through wheat fields with each upright stalk looking like an artist’s brush stroke. We were in a Van Gogh painting. The damp, black tarmac was framed by the golden wheat with a dreary gray sky as the background. Dwight, walking ahead of me was a burst of color with his bright almost fluorescent yellow foul weather jacket damp and shiny as we approached the small, walled cemetery at the top of a slight incline.
Vincent and Theo are buried side by side, next to the cemetery wall. The French planted ivy that covers the two graves; brothers under the same blanket. I wonder, if as little boys, they shared a bed and a blanket. Now they do--forever.
Just before we left, I remembered the old Jewish custom of placing a small stone on graves as a remembrance. I found two pebbles, one for Theo's headstone and one for Vincent's; my small salute to talent, loyalty and love.
