As much as Memorial Day is a time to reflect on those who have left us, it should also be a celebration of their life. Although it’s meant to be a somber day, visiting cemeteries, I can’t ever bring myself to go there.

As much as Memorial Day is a time to reflect on those who have left us, it should also be a celebration of their life. Although it’s meant to be a somber day, visiting cemeteries, I can’t ever bring myself to go there.

Typically this weekend would produce phone calls from my sister, wanting me to go to mom’s grave with her. I always decline and she always reports back that either the vase that is supposed to be attached is broken or there are weeds all over the place. I feel bad that it matters to her so much and I seem oblivious.

Why would I visit a grave to talk to my mom when I can do that anywhere, anytime, any place? The people we love aren’t really in their final resting place, that’s just where the government says we have to put their bodies.

If I were to feel the need to go cemetery hopping this weekend, the entire day would be booked up with grandparents, cousin, friends, and what about all of the military men and women? It’s just not my cup of tea and I believe mom will not hold it against me if I don’t take flowers or dust off her tombstone.

I suppose it’s part of the grieving process for many, but for me, I like to think of a final resting place being full of life, because we can carry our precious memories with us everywhere we go.

I’m pretty sure my sister thinks I’m cold hearted when it comes to these sort of things. She’s always been the one to research our ancestry and want to attend family reunions with third or fourth cousins who we’ve never met. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just not something that interests me, anymore than spending eight hours on a tractor interests her.

Feeling guilty about never wanting to go with her, I was about to tell her this year I would give in, when she announced she wasn’t going. I wasn’t sure what to say but couldn’t believe what went through my mind.

All this time I had been giving her a hard time over worrying whether the weeds were covering the headstone or that someone took the flower arrangements, and now she wasn’t going at all and my only thought was – who’s going to check on mom?

I didn’t offer to go, and I let it pass as we began a totally different conversation, but it was still nagging at me. Why should I care so much when I had made my stand on how I felt about cemeteries and all these years had basically left it up to her to make the rounds?

I guess I’ll just chalk this one up to not knowing how I feel about it, since it bothers me to go and worries me that no one else is either.

Maybe cemeteries bother me because I am trying to avoid my own inevitable “final resting place.”