When my son was born, I felt like I was cheating him. As a single mom, he only had half a family, and I set out to make sure it was at least a complete one. Our family vacations were usually three generations–my mom, my son and me–traveling to discover more of our family. We visited libraries and museums and cemeteries to research our family history. The cemeteries were always the best. My son would pretend a square squat stone was a piano and practice his fingerings. He would take out his toy tractor and drive it, farming between the endless rows of headstones. He could run and laugh with family rather than be shushed like at the libraries. Then we would picnic with our deceased relatives.
a graveside sandwich
nourishing soul and spirit
connect to the past
I didn’t have an old picture with my son in it (at least not on my computer), so this is a selfie with my sister when we picnicked with my great-great grandparents last summer.