It’s about ten minutes, door to gate, walking from my front door to the cemetery where my dad is, where mom soon will be.

It’s a non-denominational resting place owned by the municipality in which it’s located. The oldest graves I’ve seen go back to the 1700’s; the city was founded in 1777. They call it a memorial park, and that’s probably a more apt name; it has a lot of trees, plants, a few benches to sit on here and there, donated by various folks throughout the years in the name of loved ones. Birdsong is nearly constant; squirrels scamper here and there.

It’s a peaceful place.

I’ve spent a bit of time here now and again since my dad died seven years ago. The bench I was sitting on recently was just a few feet away from the twin Graves of a family that I grew up around as a kid. Not super close, but certainly familiar, and filled with fondness.

My mom died recently, but we haven’t laid her to final rest with my dad quite yet. I think I’ll just keep coming back here more and more as time goes on, seeking peace, taking time to remember, and love. Focusing on that. 

There was a Buddhist monk in Orange and yellow robe, walking around the paths of the park on that day as well. He was talking quietly on the phone, very reverent, I suspect Buddhist monks are good at that, quiet and reverent.

I like that. I like the fact that this park is 10 minutes walking from my front door to the gate.

Super grateful.

Filled with gratitude.

GOOD.