Every Wednesday

Every Wednesday I will post something about grief. Sometimes it will be a reflection on an aspect of grief’s landscape. Now and then I will share from my own journey of grief, because in the sharing of our stories we find strength and build a community of people that support one another.

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Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Grave






Why did I take a detour when I was passing through Ohio to find where Cathy was buried? What did I expect?

When I found her grave, I knew. Seeing her name on the tombstone confirmed that she was dead at age 19 from a cycling accident. She was no longer somewhere undefined in the world, but physically here.

Cemeteries mark an ending of relationships. I would never see Cathy smile again, never talk with her about music or books, and never hear the lilt of her laughter. Cemeteries remind us of all the good that has been because of that person.

I stood there for a long time. Neither of us said anything. I listened closely in case Cathy was whispering, trying to decipher the wind for the words of a message. I said a few words, in case she was listening, and thanked her for what she had shared with me years ago.


Cathy rests in a cemetery in Fostoria, Ohio, and she rests in my heart. Seeing her name chiseled in stone, under trees providing shade, brought her back.

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