Once again the calendar tells me it’s time. It’s May: time to make my annual pilgrimage to the cemetery where my parents are buried. This year, once again, I’ll visit the cemetery by myself, alone. Mother has been gone for almost seven years; Dad, much longer. As I wander the rows of the cemetery where they’re buried, I walk among perfectly aligned white grave markers sunk into the hallowed ground. Grecian urns rise over most graves, planted with waving flags and red geraniums. The flowers are planted by florists honoring the wishes of distant relatives. I know where to find my parents’ graves: side by side they rest near the middle of the vast cemetery. I scan the names of others, recalling long-remembered faces of names engraved on the stones. On a prior visit, I saw a pink paten leather child’s purse placed on a tiny grave. Some personalities live on.
I treasure this time to remember. The air is sweet, flavored by the fragrance of flowers and memories.
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