An Act of Remembrance

It’s a narrow dirt road, one you can easily miss if you don’t know where to look . . . a path that winds its way through the woods stretching to either side . . . endless woods that filter the sunlight as it weaves its way through the leafy canopy overhead.

At the end of the path is an opening in the trees . . . an opening that reveals a clearing protected from prying eyes by the same woods that guide the traveler to their destination. And within that clearing is a cemetery, small in size but steeped in the history of its inhabitants.

If you take a moment to wander among the gravestones, you’ll find many dating back to the 1800s. There are newer ones, of course, but they are far outnumbered by those that are well over a century old, monuments marking the graves of some who never drew their first breath as well as those who lived long and hopefully full lives. And then there are those graves marked only with handmade crosses, void of names or dates of birth and death, placed there to remember someone who was loved at a time and a place when anything more was simply not possible.

On this particular afternoon, I had the opportunity to find that narrow dirt road . . . to travel its length under the canopy that shielded me from the world. As I roamed about the cemetery, taking pictures and savoring the solitude, something unusual caught my eye.