Over the weekend my husband and I walked up a country road.
Up and up . . .
and up. . .
and finally down. . .
to a place nestled underneath the tall shade trees.
A peaceful and secluded place that was selected long, long ago to be the resting place of my ancestors. All in a row are my grandparents James and Lucy McMillion and four of their children.
My gr grandparents Elijah and Emily McMillion are also laid to rest up on top of this hill. A broken pine tree limb hangs close to the ground over their graves.
Another uncle and cousins are also there on top of the hill.
Many, many more of my ancestors are there. But, the only signs of their presence are sunken places and old rocks at the head and foot of their graves.
I wish they had left their names on those rocks. Now I can only guess and wonder who they were, while I walk on the ground where my ancestors once stood and said their good-byes to their family and loved ones.
When I'm up there, I don't want to leave. I want to linger and reminisce.
I remember the times I climbed that hill when I was a child. There was no road then and we climbed up a winding path through the woods. Grandma would put together bunches of live flowers cut from the bushes in her yard and we climbed to the old family cemetery and placed them on the graves.