A Ritual of Sorts

When I was a boy, I often spent Friday nights with my grandparents. On Saturday morning after breakfast we would go for a ride in the country, out to where they were raised. Although sometime around 1960 they moved to Fort Worth for a better life for their children, they were still country in spirit and habit. And so we rode along through Wise County, always stopping at the country cemetery where much of the family is buried.

On Saturdays I sometimes visit that same country cemetery myself, for that is where my grandparents are also buried. I pay my respects and then walk along imagining the lives of the people buried there. I contemplate the summations of the grieved found on the headstones. She is only sleeping. The Lord is my shepherd. I contemplate the dates. June 8, 1944. Christmas Day. I walk along reflecting, and then I travel home.

A few weeks ago, I came across the grave of a woman who lived from the times of covered wagons to the years following the lunar landing. Although I never knew this woman, nor is she my kin, I took a picture of her gravestone because I thought her epitaph was beautiful.