We have buried my uncle several years ago in a graveyard deep in the forest. A very nice walk through the woods, and we stopped at a tree and beneath that there was a hole in the ground for the coffin. It was a peaceful place, just the noise of the forest, nothing else. Not a big grave monument in the forest, just a simple small rectangular stone with a name and dates.
I was Saturday at the gravesite of my mother. I don’t go there often anymore. I discovered it is not peaceful, not quiet, not meaningful to be there. My mom is dead for over 17 years now. I wandered around aimlessly, not wanting to leave yet after the flowers were delivered and found that people have a perishable date of six or seven years. Until that time the graves are cherished, with a sea of solar light things near the grave, flowers, clean stone. After six years or so the stones get dirty, the flowers are stale and old. Unkept. Most of them, not all of course.
Life goes on, of course it does. Even my father has in his eighties a girlfriend to keep him company. That is good. Really, it’s good. 17 years is a long, long time but to some people 17 months is just as long. Who am I to judge? I won’t.
But walking around in graveyard with the deafening sounds of cars speeding on the motorway, not a silent place anywhere I suddenly finally decided I wanted to be cremated. So my daughter don’t have to walk aimlessly on a place full of noise and to keep the flowers fresh for years and years.
It is good to remember.
But you don’t need this place to do just that.