Davis has a nice, old cemetery. Not a spectacular one, but a lovely, comforting spot with trees and turkeys (ok, so the turkeys aren’t so comforting) and some impressive statues. We often stop at cemeteries on vacations, but never visit at home. On Sunday afternoon I wandered over with my camera, hoping to get a weeks worth of Project 365 shots.
I remembered our family visits to cemeteries–Grandma Bell, Cousin Carl, Ma. I saw some familiar names here…grandparents of my daughters’ friends, the town’s most beloved music teacher, a kid who was Kate’s age and died when she was in school, though I couldn’t remember the story. A girl who was killed as a college student, and is memorialized by a soccer tournament each spring. An older man stopped a grave, and I tried to get out of his way. I presumed it was his wife’s, but later when I checked the headstone, I saw it was a son, my age. The big fancy statues had a few names from Davis history, including the Davis family. I remembered the story of Elizabeth Edwards who would go to her teenage son’s grave and read out loud his senior year literature requirements. I totally got that, and imagined (for a split second) that I could be the mom with her stack of books, reading, day after day, to a gravestone. I would even do it in the rain (and then I decided that wasn’t a good place to send my imagination, so I stopped). Alex thinks I was creepy for spending the afternoon there…I didn’t want to admit how much I enjoyed it.