Cemeteries Here and There

I visited the cemetery in La Crosse where Mom and Dad (and Grandma and Grandpa Schreiber) are buried. I still find it hard to believe that Mom isn't here. The wreath I ordered looked over the plot, but it had no joy. The day was grey, overcast and foggy, just like my mood. The year of death had been inscribed on the headstone. All was final, the place desolate, me the sole visitor in the solemn park. I couldn't help but compare the space with the vibrant celebrations that I witnessed in the cemeteries in Oaxaca. We don't know how to honor our dead. We put them aside, we move on.

I made what I call my Ofrenda Navidad (Christmas Alter) on my mantel. I placed photographs and objects under the wreath that was lit with the lights we used to have at home and ornaments from Mom and Dad's trees. The display has given me the chance to talk about my parents with friends visiting this holiday season. I've shared some stories and know that some I need to record.

The year is coming to a close. I will spend the final days off-line in frigid northern Wisconsin. I'm hoping for ski-able snow, cozy fires, and a little time to read and write and get ready for the new year. I'm hoping mine has fewer calamities and continued journeys as I discover what my retirement is meant to be.