This evening when I left work, I ran by the cemetery where my people are buried. The massive oak and hickory trees keep the grounds in shade for much of the day.
I parked near the top of the hill and walked over to the graves of my mom, dad, and brothers. The wind had blown the fall flowers over so I put everything in place and stepped back to survey my work.
Flipping down the tailgate of the truck, I sat on the edge and finished a bottle of water. It's peaceful in that old cemetery. There's a lot of history there. The Davis family donated the land for the cemetery well over 150 years ago. I didn't learn until about 10 years ago that my grandmother on my dad's side was a Davis. A little research and I learned that it was her ancestors who donated the land.
Off in the distance, I could hear a train and soon it would pass over the trestle snaking westward. The train horn is a lonely sound as echoes through the hollows making it difficult to tell how far away it is. The horn sounds strong at first but then the volume fades like it's running out of breath.
I sat there for a long time listening and thinking about my folks. My dad was born in October of 1923. He would have been 93 years old later this month.
Looking at my watched, I realized the evening was slipping away so I slammed the tailgate and started to get into the truck when color at the edge of the cemetery caught my eye. Stepping over, I snapped a few pictures because I knew they'd come in handy.