A Garden of Stone

A cemetery is composed of grass and stone. The garden of stone can stretch out forever. Each block of stone has a name etched into it. Some stones are elaborate while others are simple. Usually it takes a few attempts to find the special grave that one is trying to find. Every time one visits the garden of stone, it seems as if there are fresh areas, recently dug up. A dry patch of grass is a tell tale sign that a new grave has been added. Some of the stones have flowers. Some flowers are faded while others, more recently placed on a loved one's grave, are vibrant with color. The monuments are in formation, all lined up, row after row.

Yesterday, I took artificial flowers to my Mother's grave. Sunday had been Mother's Day but it snowed and I was unable to take the flowers. Yesterday it had warmed up and a perfect day to place a wreath of  deep pink flowers in front of the grey tombstone. Both my Mother and Father are buried at Mt. Olivet.
My younger brother also lies next to them. I took him a flower too. I have two aunts, my Mother's sisters, that I like to place flowers on their flat grave marker.

 The cemetery was deserted except for another man and myself. I suppose many will come out for Memorial Day, the official day to visit the garden of stone. The man brought a folding chair and was sitting next to a tombstone. I could see he was reading from a book as he spent time next to someone he loved. What devotion, I thought.

Other thoughts: Mom and Dad, I miss you; brother, you lived such a short life; and my Mother would have been happy that I visited her sisters. I picture them all in heaven, content that they are with God.

Life continues for many, while others, having lived their lives, now live in the garden of stone.

"The cemetery is an open space among ruins, covered in

winter with violets and daisys. It might make one in love 

with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place."

Percy Bysshe Shelley