The perfect cemetery
She was 35 years old and had fought a brave and courageous eight-month-fight against non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was just 14 when she got sick and so I don’t remember many details outside of hospital visits and lots of relatives visiting. The one thing I remember about my mom being sick was that I would find her sleeping on the couch in the den when I got up to deliver papers early in the morning before school. She was in tremendous pain, but didn’t want to wake any of us, so she went downstairs to try and rest.
I got to visit the cemetery where she is buried earlier this summer. It has been years since I have been there and I had forgotten what a perfect place it is. The country church where she is buried is the same one she and my dad got married in 16 years before.
The church sits at the intersection of two dusty gravel country roads. The remains of an old outhouse sit at the back of the dirt parking lot across the road from the brown brick building. The cemetery is nestled next to the church and extends down a gently sloping hill. The church and cemetery are surrounded on four sides by pastures. The sounds of cattle and the scraggly pines waving in the breeze are all that you hear.
No where on earth is "Rest in peace" a more appropriate statement.