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.”


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