Searching for other old photos this afternoon and stumbled across these three, taken on my first visit to that cemetery, my first opportunity to visit my grandparents’ final resting place . . .
So much has changed over time. No need then for the grave rubbings, not that we yet knew to do that to preserve engravings worn away by time, the elements . . . Victorine’s name is clear. Yvonne’s tombstone still radiant—with the hyacinths we remembered to purchase at a local floriste, with the shells brought from South Carolina beaches to share with my grandmother who had once walked another Carolina’s beaches with me, who had gifted me with shells from her side of the Atlantic . . .
Those who know me well know why these flowers, why this shell . . . |
I had one very special shell and two very special flowers with me when we visited Yvonne’s grave this August . . . discovered them days later, tucked safely away where they remain still . . . Too caught up in the emotions of this visit, so very different from the last, that I did not remember their presence.
Perhaps I was not meant to remember . . .
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