Yesterday we went up to the cemetery: an hour drive there, an hour or so in town, an hour back. I picked up stones from nearby sand-hills and the roadside, to place them with my son's help on the markers for my father's parents. We paced the miniature lawn of the tiny small-town graveyard, and my son explained to me the meaning of the American flags ranked before the white cross, twined with roses; carefully reiterating a new wisdom imparted by his father.
On the way to the car, I noticed a few brightly-colored patches among the wheel ruts in the grass. Weathered petals torn from silk flowers, and bits of tattered ribbon. The detritus, wind-blown, of scattered offerings. I picked up a few ribbons and a handful of beautifully faded blossoms where they were pressed into the earth, and brought them home, and added some to the piece I'm currently working on (deadline July 14). Pictures soon.
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