Where Do We Visit Our Loved Ones?

From Gravesites to Story Pages

My dad told me that no one would visit his grave.

That was a strange thing to say in my day, for everyone I knew visited their loved ones’ graves quite often, including my own parents.

They would purchase a “grave blanket” (a casket-sized, rectangular netting of greenery) for every holiday and make a stop at various cemeteries where loved ones lay to spread the arrangement in front of the stone.

My mom had a cousin who made gravestones for a living, so they bought their granite stone in advance.

This is what I was taught.

This was the example passed down, so, again, the fact that my dad thought none of us would visit his grave was a curious one.

For the first years after my parents’ death, I arranged wreaths and brought flowers to place into the metal vases attached to the stone for Christmas or Easter or their death dates.

Always oranges & yellows for dad since autumn reminds me of him.

And pinks & corals for mom since she loved the tropical colors.

I possessed a little seed of pride that I was proving my dad wrong by taking the hour’s drive out to the cemetery as often as I did.

Something changed over the years.

I don’t feel their presence in that old cemetery. I stand there as if I should hear the ghosts whispering with the breeze, but I don’t.

Years passed without a visit, and I’m only now feeling a little guilty as I am writing about it.

I’m wondering if a cultural shift is occurring regarding that tradition.

Will young people visit graves in the future?

One of my daughters lives in another state, for example. Would she fly in to visit her parents’ gravesite on their birthday?

I must note that I feel closer to my parents now—all these years after their death—since I have been writing stories about my life.

To get these stories on paper, I have to call up their very essence and sit with them for a while. I hear their voices. I see their movements.

We laugh often, or we shed a tear occasionally. It’s like my dad’s 8 mm films play on the wall as a screen.

Those Super 8s did not have audio, but I can hear them clearly.

Our visits are much more dynamic this way, yet after having lost a friend recently, I got a little sentimental and took a drive out to the cemetery.

I stood there for a few minutes and thanked my parents for keeping me. They could have easily gone a different direction back when my mom found herself pregnant, and I wanted them to hear my appreciation.

I also wanted to thank them for never telling me their secret. It’s the one secret my mom managed to keep, and while some may argue that telling the truth is always best, I’m glad they never spoke the secret aloud to me.

I told them I hold no ill will toward them.

---

I don’t think their spirits are still hanging out near their bodies all these years later, but perhaps they followed me there that day just to listen to what I had to say.

When you speak gratitude aloud, it feels stronger, like granite.

[Will anyone visit our graves someday? Maybe not. But not to worry—maybe they’ll read our stories instead. In many ways, I brought my parents back to life in my book, linked here for you:🔗 My Father’s Daughter. 🔗 And as the story honors their life, it also touches others struggling to overcome loss or let go of bitterness. Check out the reviews at that link and see if you might like to experience a firmer grasp of what restoration feels like.]

If you’d like to encourage the writing of stories with a purpose, contributing a little fuel by clicking the button below is a nice way to do that.

Liking & sharing is another way. ❤️