|Cemetery in Paris, France|
I visited cemeteries on Mother’s Day weekend. The one where my grandparents are laid to rest is "decorated." The day designated so that everyone comes to put fake flowers on stones inscribed with names and dates.
I walked with my husband to his mother’s stone in another place. I don’t know the day of decoration. And I don’t go there often, hardly ever.
We pull faded flowers from holes honed in granite. Dry sticks had held them in place. He folds the plastic stems of new vibrant fake blooms, wraps them in tape, fluffs yellow and orange flowers, shoves them tightly in their places. Standing guard, they cheer up the stone that bears his last name and mine.
The art teacher explains perspective. I was in seventh grade. She says the closer to the horizon, the more distant, the smaller things become. And that is true when you draw a line across a page and draw a road with poles lining it.
But standing there, remembering the lives that shaped me and the one I love, I don’t feel the distance small. He reminds me it has almost been twenty years since his mother slipped into heaven at fifty-eight. But twenty years doesn’t keep tears from falling.
I passed an old stone. The letters faded, lichen covered. There, in stark reality is the cross, honed deep into the pitted rock.
The cross stands at the center of history. It is the point on which all things before and after are judged. My perspective on these graves hinges on what I believe about the One who hung there to conquer death.
We walked away. I glance toward to the Eastern horizon.
Linking with Lisa Jo at the Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday.
The word for this writing prompt: Perspective