When my son was little, I did loads of strolling. Pushing him in a stroller, killing time, holding him busy. Protecting myself busy. I quickly bought sick of my neighbourhood, so I ranged additional afield, till my wandering took me to Melbourne Normal Cemetery. An ideal place to walk, I assumed, whereas testing a little bit of historical past. However ultimately, I lower my go to quick, racing out with tears in my eyes. As a result of as I walked, I stored noticing the graves of infants and youngsters. And, as a brand new father or mother, that was an excessive amount of.
So, Monica walked in a cemetery, and located it miserable. Shock, shock! Subsequent I’ll be telling you the story in regards to the time I caught my hand in a fireplace, and was shocked to search out it sizzling. But I used to be stunned by my response to these graves. As a result of cemeteries by no means appeared unhappy to me after I was younger.
Lots of the Sundays of my childhood had been spent driving out to the faraway spot the place my mum’s household had been buried, and I at all times noticed these as enjoyable outings. As soon as we arrived, I’d hear fascinating tales about my kin, even these I’d by no means met, narrated by my aunt, the custodian of our household lore. I felt no concern, as a result of loss of life was one thing that solely occurred to very outdated folks, or younger individuals who’d lived within the Olden Instances.
I by no means bored with my aunt’s tales, one for every grave, however my favorite was great-Aunt Vi’s. My aunt would inform me how Vi had at all times insisted that nobody would go to her grave. However right here we had been, inserting a flower below her gravestone, gleefully proving the pessimistic outdated lady improper.