I've never visited my parents' graves. I don't even know where they are buried. I've been told that my father is buried between my mother and his sister Mollie, but I don't know where they lie. I have a paper that tells me where my sister Susan, who died as an infant, is buried, but I've never been there. I don't know where my brother Eugene lies.
I know exactly where Althea and Phyllis are buried — just up the hill, under the big maple. I visit once a year and bring a stone to place on their markers. Phyllis's is a bronze plaque affixed to a stone; Althea's is just the capital letter A and her dates (1939-2016). It's what she wanted.
Dan Goss is buried in Staten Island somewhere. I visited once, with Althea. A's mother, Grandma Anne, wanted her ashes divided in half and spread, part with Phyllis and part with Dan. She has no gravestone, nor wanted one.
I have told my family that I want my tombstone to read, "No more insomnia, forever." But that's a joke.
Nowadays it's the custom to scatter the ashes on a favorite place, which is nice, but there's no place to visit. Especially no place for those buried at sea.
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