There is a small country cemetery
close to my heart.
It holds the remains of my ancestors.
A grave stone is out of place,
shoved between the outstretched arms of an old tree
and guarded by poison ivy.
The cemetery is hidden up on the hillside among the trees.
Many times, as a child, my feet climbed up the
crooked and steep pathway that led to the grave sites.
A few days later, I would be reminded of my
trip to the top of the hill
when the red shiny bumps of poison ivy appeared
on my legs.
I wonder who lies here beneath this small unmarked grave stone up against a large tree?
Could it have been Gr-grandma Emily's son, Alexander, who died before the census of 1900.
The census stated that Emily had 4 children, but only 3 were living.
Grandma used to cut flowers from her yard and
bunch them together in bouquets.
She placed them on Grandpa's grave
and the graves of two of her children.
As the years passed by, Grandma was no longer
able to climb up on the hill. I continued to go with
Mom and Dad.
I now put flowers on Grandma's grave.
I visit and remember.
I remember my great grandparents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins
who rest there in the serenity of the shaded hillside.
I remember a time gone by.
Posted by Janet F. Smart at Writing in the Blackberry Patch.
©Janet F. Smart