On Memorial Day, my husband asked if we should do our duty and visit my dad's grave. You may think I'm strange, but I've never felt a compelling need to visit the graves of loved ones. We went to Daddy Dell's grave anyway, and washed off his headstone with a water bottle and an old receipt I found on the floor of my car. (Stupid birds!)
It's possible that my non-compelling desire to visit gravesites may stem from the time I first lost someone close to me. I was thirty three, and felt pretty miserable at Grandma's funeral. She had taken me in after I had my first baby in order to watch over my infant son while I rested. (Said infant son, Andy, is in this picture with me at my dad's funeral. Needless to say, he's no longer an infant.) My sister Rebecca, seeing my sorrow at Grandma's death, said, "Hey, Shirley, isn't it nice to know that Grandma will be there to greet you when it's your turn to die?"
All at once, my view of death did a one-eighty. Having funny, loving Grandma there to help me transition into the next life brought me great comfort indeed. That was something I could live with.
I have nothing against visiting graves. I'm fine with anyone who does it. Live and let live, I say. I just have no need to go there when that's not where my loved one is. They're in a brighter, busier place, but hopefully not too busy to meet the bus when I cross over, leaving my mortal body luggage behind.
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