I visit my grandfathers land once a year or so. I like it there, it’s so peaceful, quiet, and I will sit under an old Oak tree near his property line and gaze out over the rolling hills, the tall waving grasses near the edge of the wood and the big blue sky above it all, the clouds seem to slow down as they pass over this place, as if to respectfully splash a little shade upon my grandfather and all of his friends here, a little respite from the hot summer sun.
We talk him and me, about my little girls, the state of things today and sometimes I will just sit and listen, I’ll lay beside him in the cool, neatly trimmed grass there and close my eyes and remember when he used to push me and my cousin on the swings when we were just little.
Sometimes I will walk across the field to visit with my grandmother from my dad’s side, she just moved in this month. Her voice still echoes in my ears on Sunday afternoons. I give her some freshly cut flowers, tied with a ribbon, tell her I miss her.
As the sun begins it’s decent on another day, and casts an amber glow over everything, highlighting the sea of white stones that blanket these hills, I pay respect to everyone I wander by. Then, as I pass the flag pole and continue on through the iron gates, I pause, giving thanks for the tremendous and inspiring sacrifices of all of the residents there.
One day I will go back to visit my grandfather, but I won’t leave, and my family will go to visit me there. And though I’ll be sad to see them go, I will be in a good place; I will be in the company heroes.