Climbing A Mountain To My Grandparents’ Grave
I climb a mountain to my grandparents’ grave. Up and up and up again.
Warning: this post deals with themes of death, grief, and graveyards
I climb a mountain to my grandparents’ grave.
We park the car down the street, and walk past rows of houses to the cemetery.
We enter through a gate and a set of stone steps made over a hundred years ago for people with feet as small as mine.
I climb a mountain to my grandparents’ grave.
The older graves, from the late 1800s, are at the bottom — the newer the grave, the higher up you must go to reach it.
My grandparents’ grave is in the highest row — the last row before the fence, marking where the cemetery ends and the farmer’s land begins.
I climb a mountain to my grandparents’ grave.
Up and up and up again.
The path goes on beyond where it seems to end — another level up again.
I look back to make sure this is the right way. My dad nods, motions — on and up.
