A Grave Reminder

"What a waste," I said disgustedly, as Dad and I were walking past the cemetery across the street from his house in Rock Falls, Illinois.

"What's a waste?" he asked. "All those flowers people put on graves. They certainly aren't doing the dead any good. Wouldn't you think people could put that money to better use?" Dad nodded.

"I suppose. You know I've never been one to visit cemeteries myself, although I do go over and trim the grass around your mother's grave every summer."

We glanced toward Mom's grave. The exact location was easy to see from the road, even though aboveground monuments were not allowed in that section of the cemetery. Mom's body had been buried at the point where three pine trees formed a triangle, 75 yards or so from my parents' kitchen window.

Ten years before, Mom had been standing at the kitchen sink looking out at the cemetery. "You know, Ed, I know that isn't the cemetery our church uses, but it's such a beautiful place, so peaceful and so close to home. When I die, I'd like to be buried out there by those pine trees." Mom was doing dishes at the time, trying hard to keep life as normal as possible, even though at age 56, she'd recently been diagnosed as terminally ill with ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease.

When she died a year later, Dad called the cemetery caretaker to ask about the spot in front of the three pines. "Sure thing, Mr. Kobbeman. Mostly, that whole section is vacant." So Dad bought two plots, one for Mom, one for himself.

For the next six years, the only time I ever walked the 75 yards to visit Mom's grave was when my young son, Andrew, insisted that we "go visit Grandma over there in the park." While we were there, Andrew asked all sorts of questions about his Grandma Lucy, which I answered joyfully – anxious for my preschooler to know her at least a little, since she had died five months before he was born.

But normally, like Dad, I wasn't one to visit that or any other cemetery. I believed people who visited the graves of their loved ones regularly were a little morbid. After all, the Bible tells us we are born of dust, and unto dust we shall return. I knew without a doubt that the mother I knew and loved, the woman who'd been my best friend before she died, certainly did not exist under a mound of dirt across the street, so what reason could I possibly have to go visit the place?

The answer came a number of years later – after Dad had met and married Bev, the most wonderful step-mother a family could ask for. One weekend during a visit to their home, Bev and I were in the kitchen cleaning up after a big family dinner. As I scoured pots and pans, I gazed out toward the cemetery. "Looks like someone put red flowers on Mom's grave over there," I mused. Bev smiled. "Red ruscus. Aren't they pretty?" "Who put them there?" I wondered aloud. "Oh, my sister, Marge, and I did. We put geraniums on the graves every Memorial Day and red ruscus and evergreens every Christmas. My husband, Web, is buried in that cemetery, you know. And Marge's husband, and our mother, and, of course, your mother. Marge and I make flower arrangements every year for all of them."

I could just picture Bev and her sister planning, buying, creating and delivering the Christmas bouquets to the graves. Bev grabbed a dish towel and started drying the pans. "I wish I'd known your mother better, Pat. I just met her a few times when I was a substitute in her bridge club. She seemed like such a nice person." I smiled warmly at her as I replied, "She would have liked you, Bev. You both have the same quiet sincerity, and Mom was fun-loving like you."

I asked Bev to tell me about her first husband. What was he like? What did he do for a living?

Bev talked about some of the happiest times she and Web had. When he came back from the war, when their daughters were born, the job he'd had, the places they'd lived. I could tell Bev's first marriage had been a happy one, until her husband died of a heart attack in his 40's.

We sat in the kitchen for nearly an hour, sharing memories of two special people in our lives. When I looked out the window toward the three pine trees, I understood for the first time why people put flowers on graves. That bouquet on my mother's grave had given Bev and me a chance to grow closer to each other by sharing warm memories of two people we each loved very much. People whose bodies were laid to rest across the street, but whose souls were celebrating eternal life in a far distant place.

The next time I went home to visit Dad and Bev, I visited Mother's grave, not just with Andrew, but also with all four of my children. We picked a big bouquet of wild violets to place on her grave while I told the children a few stories about "Grandma Lucy." The older ones piped in with memories of their own about Grandma, much to Andrew's delight.

As we walked back to Dad and Bev's house, I had a feeling Mom was smiling at us, knowing that her eldest daughter had finally figured out the reason people visit the final resting places of their loved ones. I think she was glad to see me.

By Patricia Lorenze