A Writing Journey

I knew just one place by this name

A stop we’d make as a family

Usually after Sunday mass

Not every week

But often

My mother would pack a pot of flowers in the back of the car

My father would carry the shovel

When we arrived

They would walk in one direction

My sister and I would scatter

The green grass was like a blanket 

Speckled with grey and black square buttons

Roaming through the maze

My eyes would meet a date or a name

A soldier lies here

A husband was dearly loved

A baby gone too soon

I would linger at that spot 

Imagine the person that was lost

And then a bird would distract me 

Moving me on to another

Until my mother would call for me

Time for my job

To fill the watering can

And bring it to her

Sometimes I would need my sister to help

They would let me pour

And I watched carefully as the water

Gently glided over stone and into soil

Surrounding the blooms and roots 

And then slowly disappearing into the ground

I would return to the water tap for more 

And repeat

And repeat

Pouring again

Pouring again

The water always disappearing each time

Into the ground

With the blooms tucked neatly in place

And the water drying

My parents would pause

Look down

Eyes focused but distant

I would hear the birds again

But I wouldn’t look away

I watched my parents, like statues

I listened

To the silence

They would make a sign

Over their hearts

And then my father would 

Break the silence 

His loud voice calling us home again

We would leave knowing

We would return 

With the flowers still there

To greet us again