I Just Don't Go to the Cemetery

With last week being Memorial Day and all, I thought about going to the cemetery to visit my parents' graves.  Once again, I didn't end up going.  I don't know when the last time I've been to their graves was.  Probably over a year ago at least.  I think, "It's Christmas.  I need to go visit Mom and Dad," or "Mother's Day is next week.  I should go plant some flowers." But I don't go.  I know I should feel ashamed, and I do a little, mostly because my sister who lives out of town visits more often than I do.  I remember my mom saying to me once,

"You'll never come visit my grave when I'm dead."

I replied with all sincerity, "Yes I will!" and I meant it.  I did!  But when reality was here, she was right.

And as much as I love poking around old cemeteries with other people's family members long buried, I don't like going to visit my parents' graves.

I'm not sure why I don't go except what is there to do really?  The cemetery takes care of the plot.  They mow and trim.  We've planted day lilies, and my other sister puts in annuals.  I feel stupid just going there and sitting on the ground by their stone.  I'm always trying to decided if I'm standing on their heads or what.  They are on a slope, so they actually have a footstone not a headstone.  I can't get my brain around that idea.  They are dead, so why does it matter what way they are laid in the ground? Isn't the hole level anyway?

Then there is the whole reality thing.  If I go and see their names and dates in the granite, it is just another slap in the face that they are dead.  I already know that.  No need to remind me.  I talk to them all the time, so I don't need to go their graves to do that.  I visit them in my mind where they are much more real and present.  I don't need to go to their final resting place to be with them.

I feel my dad when I'm tending my tomatoes, snapping off the suckers growing up between the stems.  He's with me when I open a jar of okra or olives or eat pistachios.  I read the paper and come across some political story and wonder what Dad would think of this new twist.  When I'm photographing grade school football games, I see him in the stands watching Kyle play.  Every time I see a little gold truck cruising down the street, he is driving it.  He is never far from my mind.

And Mom.  She is in all I do.  I take a recipe out of my recipe box and see her handwriting on lasagna or apple pie or summer salad.  She is in a trip to Huber's or strawberry jam or a slice of zucchini bread.  Every year when I hang my Christmas ornaments, I see her face in them, especially in the little gold balls that she was convinced made the tree perfect.  She's in the coffee that I drink and the cheese toast I eat and the lilies of the valley that I transplanted from her house to mine.  She is at every single party I host, and every time I hear, "Wanda would be proud," I know she lives within me.

So, she was right.  I don't go to the cemetery.  Maybe I should feel guilty, but I really don't.  My parents' headstone is there.  Their bodies rest there.  But their spirit lives in me and around me every single day of my life.  They will never be forgotten, and I don't need to see a marker to remind me how very much they are loved.