It’s late at the Super 8.

There’s dirt under my fingernails even though I wore gloves.

I have one pink geranium I couldn’t make fit.

The urn for their flowers that I bought new last year was damaged by the winter.

My husband left four stones on my parents’ graves to show that we had been there.

I wiped down their headstone and that of my grandparents, wiped the old mown grass away with a rag.

In the late afternoon sunlight, both of the rose-colored stones shone just a little bit.

I would have sat there all afternoon, on that little hill admiring the trees, except we were in a hurry to go somewhere else.

I planted geraniums and petunias and plants I don’t know the names of until the urn was full and worthy of its job of showing the world that my parents had people who will show up year after year.

My husband walked the dogs while I tended to my parents’ grave so, as he said, I can have a little cry.

I never cry.

I am just glad to be there with the sun coming through the trees in the rolling hills of the old cemetery where my parents and grandparents and relatives I never met are buried.

It is a beautiful, beautiful, precious place.