Storytorch

On Friday I drove to the Winterset cemetery to place pots of petunias on the graves of my parents, my grandparents, and my aunt. Recent thunder showers had washed the granite and marble, so I didn't need the spray cleaner and paper towels I took along.

Rows of Memorial Day flags were already in place. The veterans install the bright banners, spacing the poles evenly along both sides of lovely, curving drives. White plaques at the bases of the flag poles display names of local men and women and the years each served in the armed forces.

Yesterday, I went back to the cemetery on foot. I cut irises and lilacs from the yard, put them in a coffee can of water, and walked the mile or so this time, making my annual visit to the place that marks the mortal remains of a young man.

Jeremy was my oldest daughter's boon companion, a friend of our family from his high school years until the accident that ended his life at 25. Our home was headquarters for the adult friends Hannah gathered from Iowa City and beyond for the funeral.

I always feel inadequate on my pilgrimage. I loved Jeremy, but I was only on the periphery of the fun times the kids had. I was not his mother, his brother, his girlfriend, or his housemate. Each May since 1999, I visit his gravesite to stand in for those who might go if they weren't far away.

At the cemetery, hundreds of flags were snapping in the breeze as I added my bouquet to others already there.

Today's Fortune Cookie Fortune:
You will remember loved ones who are gone.