Where we lie

Lying next to ancestors after we die holds more meaning than I tend to think about.

Headstone for my mother Patricia, and her mother Elizabeth with the man I knew as my Grandfather

Last summer I went back to my hometown, Hubbard, Iowa. I moved there at the age of 10 when my mom died, placed with an aunt and uncle who didn’t want me, but my grandmother wanted me close after she lost her daughter. She had that rule over our family – what she said was done. I have lots of stories to share about her but today I want to write about headstones and places of rest and their significance to us as the living who remain.

My first stop when I reached town was the graveyard. After all, it’s a daughter’s duty to visit her mother first, even if she is dead. I easily found the grave; the cemetery really isn’t that big. But it had grown by what seemed like what must have doubled the population since my mom had been buried, and there were many more gravestones than even the last time I had visited a few years ago.

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