Last year was a very hard year with the loss of John’s father and his grandmother.  We just found this piece that our son had written after attending Mamo’s funeral.  He was kind enough to let me share it here.

Mamo's Roses

“I just got the call.  Mamo passed away.”  My brother and I looked up to see mom in the living room.  “We’re planning on leaving tomorrow to attend the funeral.  You should pack.”  With that she left the room.  Patrick was the first to get up to go upstairs.  “Well, come on.  Let’s go pack.”

I had somewhat of a fear of graveyards and thought dead people might come out and attack me.  I guess I was a little paranoid.  Like the time my brother told me not to step on a crack.  My step dad, John, told me it was a beautiful place and I didn’t have to worry about it, but I was still a little worried.

We went to my Nana Phyl’s house to stay till after the funeral.  It was pretty obvious that the news hit her hard.  We stayed there until Sunday when the funeral began.  The cemetery was nothing like the movies where the dead came out and attacked people.  In fact, it seemed to be the exact opposite.  The hill was a shining green meadow decorated with flowers like a giant bouquet.

In the middle of the hill was the coffin of a hazel shine that held our Great Grandmother Mamo.  I was standing by the tent that was used for shade and thought to myself, “It is impossible for something as ghastly as zombies to exist in this heaven.”

“Come and sit down, Travis,” John whispered to me as he gestured toward a chair beside him.  “I think I’ll stand, ” I answered back.  “Let’s begin,” said the preacher.  “We have all gathered here today to pay our respects…” The preacher talked about where she lived and where she moved.  He talked about her survival through the Depression and the bottling factory she owned.  And in the middle of all of this I wondered, “How could somebody ever possibly think to make a place lie this look horrible?”

“Is there anyone who would like to share a story about Mamo?”  The elder friends of Mamo began with stories about her and the things she would do.  They weren’t big.  Just small stories.  And we laughed at the funny ones and cherished the thouching ones.

Nothing was wrong with these cemeteries.  They were like gardens for the elders.  Shame to the man who thought of zombies coming from these gardens.  And I guess it’s our own imagination that scares us.