At the Cemetery

Today, another yearly ritual.  I put geraniums, petunias and dusty miller on my parents' and and my sister's graves for Memorial Day.  

It's too early really, I would usually do this the day before, but this year, Gary and I will be in Spooner at a military cemetery where his brother-in-law's ashes are to be interred.  We'll meet his family there on Friday and then we'll camp for a few days.

As I worked up the ground, I looked across the fields and thought how my father selected these sites because they were adjacent to prime Wisconsin farmland.  In the distance, I could see a farmer on his tractor working the fields.  Sadly though, after he bought the lots, a golf course was built across the way, so now the plots overlook a parking lot.  The trees that should shade this area came down a few years ago.  Now the graves are open to the sun all day.  No, it is unlikely those flowers will last the summer.  It would require someone to water them almost every day to keep them fresh, and I won't be around.

To make it worse, frost is possible in the coming few days, so what I planted may not even survive a week, but then it was memories that were  the important thing, not the flowers themselves.

Down the row are my aunt and uncle, my grandparents, and my great-grandparents. There are the graves of two little boys, each who died at the age of six, one from sickness, the other from an accidental drowning. The same age as my grandson, I think.  Somewhere I have a photo of Erwin, a beautiful blond child.

There's my sister who died at the age of 42.  Then there are the three empty spaces that could be filled by one of my siblings, or, I suppose, me.

Sounds morbid, but in fact, I always have a sense of serenity as I do this work.  In the fall, it will be red tulip bulbs that I plant.  On Christmas Eve, there's a candle to light the graves. The seasons pass, time goes on, and I do this work, thinking about those that went before.  

Remembrance.  Sweet.