Yesterday, one of those luscious autumn New England days, I took a friend to the town cemetery on the hill. Her husband is buried there and she loves to sit by his grave and enjoy the tree that years ago her family had planted near by. She sits for a while; I walk.
I wander up and down the rows, following the grassy paths past old and new gravestones. Old Sudbury names like Fairbanks and Hunt. Names of individuals that I knew: a teacher I taught with, a student I taught, parents of students I taught, a woman I played tennis with, church members, good friends. Of course there is sadness mixed in with the memories, but I’m comforted as I recall the good times we shared.
After my stroll, I sit and chat with my friend, sharing good times, creating memories.
I wander up and down the rows, following the grassy paths past old and new gravestones. Old Sudbury names like Fairbanks and Hunt. Names of individuals that I knew: a teacher I taught with, a student I taught, parents of students I taught, a woman I played tennis with, church members, good friends. Of course there is sadness mixed in with the memories, but I’m comforted as I recall the good times we shared.
After my stroll, I sit and chat with my friend, sharing good times, creating memories.