On our way to the mountains, I traveled with my parents through some lovely countryside, with the seasons changing as we drove into the higher elevations. When we passed a little white country church, I impulsively pulled into the gravel parking spot. “Let’s take a walk through the cemetery.”
My mother’s father used to love walking through cemeteries, and I think I’ve inherited this trait, despite the fact that he died just after I was born. This little country cemetery was filled with old trees, tilted tombstones, and flowering bushes. We spent thirty minutes or so just wandering around, reading dates and names, and calling to each other whenever we discovered something cool. In some places, trees had grown up right through the tombstones, splitting them. I find it comforting, somehow, to look at the graves of people who died more than a hundred years ago.
I wandered through with my parents, talking about our own preferences. “I wouldn’t mind being buried in a lovely spot like this.” As we turned to get back into the car and continue our journey, the sun came out from behind the clouds and lit up the grey tombstones, the marble statues, the old trees.
