For Mother's Day this year, Mom decided she would like for me to take her to the cemetery where Uncle Ken and Aunt Dora were buried. She has never been back since the day of the funeral. We called the funeral home that handled the services to find out exactly which cemetery it was and where it was at.
Now to say I am directionally challenged is an understatement. To say I like to drive where I have no idea where I am going is even more of an understatement. I figured the cemetery was about 25 miles away and I remembered it was in the middle of nowhere.
Our conversation consisted of:
'Do you know where you are going?' No.
'All the houses look the same.' We are in the middle of amish country.
'All the roads look the same.' Yep. Curvy and empty.
'I didn't remember being so far away when we went here before.' Yep.
'It's so far away.' Sigh.
Of course once we got there, we had to find the grave sites. Fortunately, the cemetery was smaller than what I remembered so it really was not that difficult.
I always enjoy listening to my mom remember. I could tell she was remembering. A brother who was a gentleman. A sister-in-law that she had loved. A childhood that had flown past. A simple childhood. One full of love. One full of faith. Remembering what was between the dashes of their birthdays and deathdays.
On the way home, I drove past my mom's childhood home. A home I remember. A home full of happy memories of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Events that will be between the dashes of my birthday and deathday.
Some gifts cannot be bought. For this Mother's Day I gave mom the gift of time. The gift of memories. She has given me the gift of love.
