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.

There were toys . . . toys on many of the children’s graves.

I had seen the toys before, but until that day I hadn’t realized the significance. There was a large plastic fire truck placed within a concrete border that was once filled with flowers planted by grieving parents. There was a robot attached to one of the crosses by a string of beads twisted ‘round its neck. There were small plastic cars and trucks, a tractor, and even two very detailed toy horses nestled into the dried leaves that Time and Nature had very gently placed behind stones marking the graves of a brother and sister, children who were born and who died five years apart . . . in 1884 and 1889.

All of the graves were from the same time period, and yet they had been decorated with the symbols of childhood—symbols placed there decades after their deaths. Was it a family member generations removed who just wanted to acknowledge what was lost? A parent clearing away toys long outgrown by their children? Or perhaps someone with family buried in these hallowed grounds in years past . . . someone who had lost a child and chose to honor their memory by honoring the memories of others. 

I will never know why someone would choose to place toys on the graves of children whose bodies had been lovingly—and with great sorrow—committed to the sacred ground of this place of peace so many years ago; I just know that someone did. And on this particular afternoon, that act of remembrance said more than words ever could.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.