I ventured to Cedar Hill Cemetery on Saturday morning, Jan. 16. It was overcast, the clouds just ready to release their rain. And the crosses in the older part of the cemetery were calling to me....
Sweet and poignant and grim and restful, all at once. A tilted cross, a crumbling one, a valiant one half-buried in unrecognizable shapes and bits of clinging grass, a dappled shape standing still-proud after a century.
There's one like the shield of a crusader, rising forth from the frost-crisped grass, and a tiny one leaning for comfort against the stone of Mary Wood, like a little child against his Mother's knee.
And they make me smile, somehow, these reminders and remembrances, though they represent sorrows and losses and pain. They say WE WERE, and we are remembered and live on.
And your galleries keep the names and the memories alive, as much as the names carved in stone.
I love these, Marty. I believe the second one is my favorite.
ReplyDeleteSweet and poignant and grim and restful, all at once. A tilted cross, a crumbling one, a valiant one half-buried in unrecognizable shapes and bits of clinging grass, a dappled shape standing still-proud after a century.
ReplyDeleteThere's one like the shield of a crusader, rising forth from the frost-crisped grass, and a tiny one leaning for comfort against the stone of Mary Wood, like a little child against his Mother's knee.
And they make me smile, somehow, these reminders and remembrances, though they represent sorrows and losses and pain. They say WE WERE, and we are remembered and live on.
And your galleries keep the names and the memories alive, as much as the names carved in stone.