It’s not as morbid as it sounds, but I love cemeteries. When I was a poor teenager, only a small field and somewhat of a hill separated my trailer park from the largest cemetery in town, and my mom’s side of the family was laid to rest (or had plots already purchased) on the side of the cemetery closest to us.
I used to hike the hill and walk down the path that led to the cemetery, and I had a little spot where I’d sit at night. Perched up there I could see the graves of my great-grandparents, their middle son, and the headstone of where my grandparents would eventually be buried. It was a moment of peace during a very tumultuous time. I never went down into the cemetery, just sat above it looking down.
My grandparents ended up not being buried there. My grandpa always wanted to be cremated, so the plan was that my grandma would be buried holding my grandpa’s ashes. But my grandma always feared being buried alive and that fear got worse as she got older. At some point they decided she would also be cremated, but they kept the plot because they wanted us to have a place to “visit” them, where everyone would know that they were married until death parted them.
I never feared cemeteries because my grandma instilled in me a reverence for them as early as I can remember. To this day there’s nothing I love more than walking through a cemetery on a fall day. It’s peaceful and pretty, and my pace can be whatever I want it to be.
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