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April 06, 2006


When I was young I only made occasional visits to cemeteries.  My parents were both the youngest children in their families which meant that by the time I was five years old all my grandparents had passed on.  My mother was estranged from her siblings and my fathers three brothers were dead before I turned eleven so most of the "family" funerals were out of the way before I hit puberty.  In fact by the time I went away to college the majority of my "pilgrimages" to various final resting places were more of the tourist variety during family vacations. 

But since David's death from "huffing" almost 5 years ago hardly a week goes by that we don't visit his grave at the cemetery.  It was impossible at first...but getting up every morning the first year was impossible.  But gradually, over time, doing impossible things became a daily occurrence. 

I found myself hating my familiarity with the cemetery.  I knew all the names on the graves that surround David's, I notice when new flowers or personal mementos appear on the markers from those that have been left behind.  And most of all I notice the new arrivals.  The disturbed earth which seems rudely thrust up and turned over.  The floral arrangement from the graveside service casually heaped upon the turned earth, their blossoms and petals in various stages of decay. 

And if the wind is right I can still hear the sighs and feel the tears on my face and in an instant the impossible returns.

April 6, 2006 at 11:21 PM in The Journey | Permalink


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I am feeling your pain as I read. What an awesome writer you are. Your son was so blessed to have had you both for parents. He must know how very much he was loved.

Thank you for sharing your memories with us. Thank you for Dave's story. His time here on earth was for a purpose as evidenced by your words and by the way his short life is serving to help other families.

Posted by: Christine | Apr 24, 2006 12:37:05 PM

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