Robin Writes: Honoring the memory
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My grandmother died when I was a little girl. She is buried at a cemetery in my hometown. Since we lived right across the street, Mom took me to visit the gravesite often. She held my hand as we trotted across the highway in front of the cemetery; her other hand held a clump of plastic flowers or a jar of irises from our yard.
All the visits I remember were in the summer, when the air was heavy and the grass was sharp and dry. Cicadas moaned a cadence that was loud and comforting in its rhythm. Mosquitoes followed us from the minute we stepped onto the grounds. They kept me busy, slapping and waving my arms to stir them away.
Afternoon sun beat against the limp leaves on the trees that dotted the cemetery, trying to pry entrance into the shade below. Mossy clumps clung to the ground beneath those trees; when we walked there, I could hear it smushing under my sneakers.
My grandmother’s grave is on the far edge of the graveyard. Mom and I took our time walking there; a gentle slope pushed us forward. Along the way, we stopped here and there to visit our favorite headstones.
Some of the graves had elaborate, shiny headstones bigger than my body. They had one big word, written in capital letters at the top, and numbers underneath. The graves all around the large headstones often had the same word etched on them. “A family plot,” Mom would tell me.
I thought plot was a funny word. Sounded like the sound a foot makes stomping a puddle.
Other graves had headstones made of little rocks, all stuck together in a clump. Some of the rocks had shiny flecks in them, like pieces of broken glass. I reached out and rubbed the words that were chiseled on them; some parts were smooth and hot, some cool and sharp.
Mom taught me how to walk in the cemetery. “Never step on a grave,” she’d whisper. She always whispered when we visited Grandma. But it wasn’t a scary whisper. It was warm and soft, like her cheek when she hugged me at bedtime.
When I came close to a headstone, I tiptoed along the edges of the grass in front of it. I tried to guess how tall the person was underneath so I wouldn’t step on him. If I forgot to be careful and got too close to the grave, I’d take a “Mother-May-I” giant step to get to the other side.
The grassy rectangle where my mother’s mother was buried seemed like a happy place. Mom smiled as she leaned in to clean little sticks or bits of grass from around the metal placard that had Grandma’s name written on it.
MARY SIMS, it said. Mom’s name was Mary, too. It was easy for me to remember.
“She’ll like these flowers,” Mom told me. She’d try to push the plastic stems into the ground, but the ground was always too hard. Sometimes, I ran to the trees nearby and found a stick to dig a hole with. Mom let me try for a minute or two, but we would end up just laying the flowers across the grave like a frilly fan.
Then we’d head back to the top of the cemetery, to the road just beyond, and home. Mom cried sometimes, but she told me it was sweat from the sunshine. I’d squeeze her hand, and tell her I loved her. Our hands were wet from all that sweat and tears and love, but we both held tight.
Cemeteries are wonderful, calm, and bittersweet places for me. I visit Grandma’s grave—and Mom’s—as often as I can. I bring flowers. And I remember.
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ν Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].
