Headstones Or Memories

How We Keep Them Close

Steven is a wonderful husband and father. I know, that sounds trite. Fine! For your benefit, I will expound. He’s kind, thoughtful, romantic, a true gentleman with a quick wit and a fine sense of fashion. (Brag much?) And he’s a good son.

Steve’s parents passed years ago, and he has never failed to visit them at the cemetery on their birthdays, on Mother’s and Father’s Days, and sometimes in between. I have never accompanied him. In my imagination, he talks to them, telling them about his life and the lives of his son and grandchildren. Maybe he adds a bit of gossip? Who knows, I’m not there with him.

This is one area where Steven and I are different.

I consider myself a good wife, a good mother, and a good friend. But am I a good daughter? Since the funerals of my mother and father, I have not once visited their graves. I will not visit their graves.

Cemeteries leave me uneasy. Standing there, I can’t help but think: they’re gone. They can’t hear me. I’d only be talking to myself.

My parents live in my memories, everywhere. When I’m having something hemmed, I remember my mother pinning a dress while I stood, in heels, wobbling on the kitchen table, my father calling out, “Turn! Turn!” Or the time I baked him a cherry pie and forgot to “Add one cup sugar and blend”. The look on his face was priceless, though he still praised my crust.

Not all memories are sweet. Sometimes, regret and shame are triggered. I still feel the sting from the day I mocked a girl’s outfit. My father pulled me aside and said, “You don’t know her. That may be the very best she has.” He was right. That lesson has never left me.

For me, that’s where my parents live: in memories, lessons, and sudden bursts of laughter. I may never lay flowers at their graves, but my parents are with me still, woven into my laughter, my regrets, the lessons that guide me, and even the recipes that sometimes go wrong. For me, honoring them isn’t about standing among headstones. It’s about carrying them forward in the life I live, the family I love, and the stories I tell.

How do you keep the people you’ve lost close? By visiting graves, by telling stories, or in some entirely different way?