It's quiet here.
I say prayers and pull weeds.
Clean headstones.
Decorate for Memorial Day.

Ancestors, grandparents, aunts, uncles.
The old white church watches over them.
Comforting when it's sunny,
somber when it's not.

As I look at their stones, I see them.
Great Great Grandma spinning at her wheel.
Great Grandma knitting socks for Eli.
Grandma's pies waiting for coffee time.

Wind and chimes pose questions.
It's not Grandma's Finnish accent I hear
asking, "What are you kids doing now?"
Just a pine cone falling from a nearby tree.

Spruced up for the next visit.
I survey their new homestead.
At midnight, it would be different.
It's quiet here.


© by Deb Tillman.
Used here with the author's permission.