This year, while my husband and I were laying on the sun-warmed cemetery grass near the family gravestones, I happened to look back up the hill, and noticed the two small, crumbling and long-forgotten stones above and behind us. The shadow from the tall pine tree almost obscured them, hiding their grey and moss-covered surfaces among the missed blades of unruly grass. Curious, I scooted my rear up toward them, then sat cross-legged in front. Using my fingers, I brushed away the dirt, the dust, and traced the words.
They were old. 1800s. And both were children. Brother and sister.
And try as I might, I did not find any relations in the vicinity. They were two young children, all alone.
So I got up and plucked two large peony flowers from the bush near the tall stone of my husband’s great-grandfather, and returned to the two small stones. I carefully laid the blossoms down, one in front of each, and tidied the area with my hands.
My husband watched me with interest, surprise maybe.
“What?” I asked, stray pieces of plucked grass in my fingers.
“You put flowers on graves that have no one to put flowers on them.”
“Yeah.” I paused, shrugged. “Someone needs to remember them.”