There’s something especially peaceful about cemeteries, peaceful but not desolate, offering a deeply relaxing combination of solitude and community. People drive in and out to visit graves of loved ones; others wander about reading the stones, which is what I often do.
Gravestones from the Revolutionary War period tell of infant deaths, of young adults, of beloved husbands and wives, of friends. Along with dates and age, there is often a phrase that captures the essence of the person. Of course the story is never offered in fullness, but the meager but meaningful information is enough to make me feel that I am part of the extended family, perhaps visiting for those who have joined their loved ones in the common burial ground.