My grandparents are buried sixty miles away.  I pass by each time I visit my mom, but I rarely think to stop.  I just never got the idea of cemeteries.  The people you loved aren’t there. You know?  Grandpa probably contributed to this more than anyone.  If we ever brought up end of life planning, he’d just grunt and say, ”You can just throw me off in a ditch. I won’t care.”  No arguments that we would care or that we didn’t necessarily want to get arrested during our grieving process would faze him. He didn’t care, and wouldn’t care what we did with his vacated body. 

However, Grandma went first, and he was forced to make decisions for both of them.  The place he picked is lovely.  He picked a couple of plots under a big tree, with several empty plots surrounding it in case we want to join them there someday.  So, driving home alone yesterday after dropping the little kids off with my mom, I felt that I should stop by and pay my respects -whatever that is supposed to mean.  I figure I pay my respects every day that I breathe and behave the way they taught me. I hadn’t been in two years.  I know if my mom knew that she’d be hurt.  So I turned in and wove my way around to the familiar spot.

The tears were pressing in on me before I ever left the car.  The shade from the trees and the breeze off the little pond were comforting, and I finally understood the whole cemetery thing.  A quiet place to come and remember is not a bad thing.  It was a really hot day, but it felt cool there under the shade. I sat down next to them and let the full force of missing them hit me.  This is hard to write. I read the words that summarized their lives in the simplest of terms – a timeline.  She was 75. He was 80. Somehow I expected them to live so much longer.  I went back to the car for something to knock off some of the dirt coating the plaques.  The recent rains and the subsequent mowing had probably deposited it there. I felt their absence and how changed I am without them.  I sat on the bench that Grandpa had insisted on.  The breeze felt familiar and I tried to think about morning coffee with Grandpa on the deck, and swinging on the front porch with Grandma.

What I remembered most though were those days in August 2007 and May 2008 – the end dates on the plaques.  They were similar summer days, with the heat bearing down on us. I remembered the big white tent that held loved ones and flowers. I remembered the hugs and words from friends and family.  I remembered the way the sun sparkled off of the pond.  I remembered the pain in my cousins’ faces, and the brokenness of my mother.  I remembered a comforting friend who no longer speaks to me and family members who have drifted away without our common anchors.

It was good to go and remember, but I remember them everywhere. And not just their deaths, but their lives.  I remember them when I hold my children, and when I brew coffee in the morning, and every time it storms.  I remember them when I drive down the highway, and cook dinner, and go to our family place on the river.  The cemetery is a strange and beautiful place, both comforting and painful at the same time.  I know I can’t be the only person to feel this way. It was good to go and remember though.

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