My Peaceful Place

Thanks, Mom and Dad

Photo by author

My parents were very organized, conscientious people. They even purchased their final resting place decades before they needed it. And thank goodness for that.

Mom used to talk about the beautiful oak tree and peaceful, rolling hills. It sure sounded nice, but it was still an obscure concept to me. I’ll take your word for it, Ma.

And then they died — within weeks of each other. Mom went first. I finally got to see this forested gravesite, but I wasn’t paying much attention. I mean, my dad needed a lot of help, and it was a stressful time.

Then it was Dad’s turn. The oak tree seemed bigger, just weeks later. The leaves were starting to turn. A bugler played Taps, as a folded flag was presented to my brother. A blue jay sung a loud and obnoxious song from a branch above.

And they were at Peace.

I’m not big on visiting dead people. I mean, their spirits are not six feet under — they are everywhere.

But around a year later, I decided to go back to the cemetery. It’s a big place, but I was hopeful that I’d remember where they were buried. I drove around for a while, then found an area that felt right.

It was a crisp autumn day, and I stood there for a while taking it in. Then I began to scan the ground…