Jack of Harts

I went up north over the weekend to see Mom’s grave for the first time since I buried her ashes last fall. I saw her gravestone for the first time with my own eyes, and I visited my grandparents, my great uncles and their wives, and my uncle. All of them lying within a baseball diamond of each other. The older generations going back to those who came over on the boats are on the other side of the graveyard, nearly a football away. It’s a beautiful country graveyard across the road from the church where my family grew up in, were baptized in, and served as church officials. It’s surrounded by fields, trees, and storm clouds rolling in on the day I went. It’s a good place to rest in peace.