Caring for our dead

It was late afternoon and the shadows stretched long between tall maple and birch trees.
When I arrived at my parent's grave, my hand lay damp in Stephen's warm grip. With a tight throat I placed a pot of heather where we laid my dad to rest. It's strange that our ancestors are often with us, and it feels safe and reassuring, but their graves are ominous. This cemetery has many trees and old gravestones and we kept wandering around between angels and wise words.