We took a walk at the high, old, cemetery. Much busier than we anticipated, even knowing tomorrow is Memorial Day. Neither of us come from families that picnicked at family graves. My father worked at a cemetery, one of the older ones in Detroit. We watched fireworks from there, because we could get in, along with other cemetery workers, on July 4ths, to my deep discomfort. I even practiced driving there. None of our ancestors moldered there, nor did we ever visit any of the places that held family remains after the funeral.
We came to appreciate burial grounds while in Boston, since one can hardly walk around without walking through a gravesite. I've only once visited the grave of anyone known to me, for Aunt Evelyn, the last time I was in Windsor. Her son took me, and I felt a great easing of grief, after so long, since I could not be there when she died. No need to go back afterwards, but the once was unexpectedly profound.
The place here teemed with SUVs and families, many familiar names in the high rent plots, no doubt related to the various doctors and families of note. We wandered alone among the less regarded stones. The skewed and half hidden, the rote concrete. A lot more Japanese stones than we expected, some very elegant and recent. A plot for Union Iron Workers. The veteran section. And although neither of us would want so much as the most anonymous marker, it is a kind of history solidified. This ground considered sacred has withstood the encroachment of building developments and businesses, leaving for all this vista across to the mountains.
Unintended consequences. It'll get you every time.