When I was young, I remember collecting flowers from the back yards of family to assemble bouquets. We would go to my grandparent’s yard to collect peonies, my aunt D’s yard to collect mums and roses, our yard for lilacs and baby’s breath. My aunt D would spearhead the operation. My mom, sister and I gladly participated. We would gather the flowers and drive to the local cemetery. On memorial day this was our ritual. Walking past gravestones, looking for loved ones lost, and hearing stories about the names that were strange to me and my sister, but who meant something to my aunt, dad and their family. My mom would have memories of some of the names, and seek out those she knew as well. Baby B died at 6-weeks old. Grandpapa and grandmama were two slabs in the ground, next to each other. The stories would start to flow as we stopped to grab the flower holder and add water before positioning our flower masterpiece.
Occasionally my sister would feel bad for those who didn’t have visitors, so she would drop a single rose or lilac on their tombstone.
I must have been 6-years old. At the time, I understood the importance of death and loss to the living. I reflected and felt sorrow on every Memorial day, exploring the cemetery with my family, both for those we knew and didn’t know.
And today in the big city where we have little to no connection to the cemetery, we spend it as another day off – with family, friends, or at Target.
I imagine that for those who attend church, there is a closer connection to the life-death-life cycle. For the rest of us non-church dwellers, we need to find our way back to remembering lives lost, and reflect on our collective past, for humanity’s sake.
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