I wasn’t sure whose grave I found that day. When I traveled up, into the mountains. When I stumbled upon that clearing, yellowing in the wake of fall. When I found that tombstone, carved, but unmarked. I’m not sure whose grave I found that day. Not at all.
All I knew was:
When I saw it, I was drawn.
And, as I drew closer, I could feel it more clearly.
And, as I felt it more and more, it weighed heavily on my heart.
I felt sad that day. A new mourner to stand in front of the unmarked grave. A new sadness to throw at the foot of the stone.
As I stood there, feeling it—that thick, heavy weight that came with loss, that came from poking around a hole that could never be filled—I was suddenly struck. Filled with determination.
I would be a proper mourner for this stone. For this sorrow I felt. Even if it meant mourning alone.
I was going to come back with flowers.
The very next day, in fact.
And when I came back, I was still unsure of whose grave it was. But, I was glad that I came.
Because I was not the only visitor that day. Continue reading “Mourning Stones Do Not Mourn Alone”