Remembering
My paternal grandparents. Late May in small-town Idaho. We would wake early for a vacation day. Mom would go outside to circle the lilac bush. When she returned, her arms were heavy with the heady scent of spring. The counter covered with flowers. She would cut and arrange them in masons jars filled with water. Purple and white loveliness. Into the station wagon we piled. Windows down and the warm breeze ruffling our hair. The line into the cemetery was often long, cars inching forward waiting their turn. Finally, we would turn in and follow the path, around the back and up to the big tree. If we were lucky, Dad would park in the shade. Mom might let me carry the precious flowers. We were taught to respect the graves, no running across the grass, no goofing around. The cemetery was large and confusing to me. I always wondered how Dad always knew where to go. We would find it and Mom would set the homemade arrangement in beside the markers, one for Dad's parents, one for...