He wasn't there, of course. He hasn't been around since 2002 when he died at the age of 80. Our little family of three wasn't alone there at Willamette View Memorial Cemetary in Portland, Oregon. We were surrounded for acres by families making sure that loved ones were remembered.
Everywhere we looked there was a scene to bring tears. A Vietnam era Vet, sitting on a bench, hands hanging between his knees, head bowed. A young woman taking a picture of a smiling baby sitting next to a grave marker. A very elderly man who had been helped from his wheelchair by family members. He lay on his side in the grass propped up on an elbow, his hand resting on the stone. He wept. I went back later to find that a woman was buried there where his hand had laid. She was 90 when she died earlier this year.
The hardest was the middle-aged couple who stood toward the bottom of the hill. Where the grass ended. Where a row of small marble plates marked the place where lay the newly deceased not yet covered with green lawn. The couple stood embracing, then parted and looked absolutely lost. As if they didn’t know which way they should turn. Or where to rest their eyes.
The last one in the last row died just 10 days ago. Funeral sprays still piled high.
They bury them by date, as they leave this world, so young and old lay side by side. I find that comforting. Ridiculous, I know. But, it feels as though the young ones are cared for, somehow, and that the old ones will have warmth and companionship when the winter rains are unleashed.
I found out today that on Thursday, some friends of ours helped put out the flags at each grave. 140,000 of them. 140,000 service members just in one cemetery.
Dad's in a niche on a quiet walkway looking out over the forest.