There is something cathartic about going to the cemetery.
I spent many years avoiding going there for anyone I had lost, telling myself that I could communicate with them wherever I was. Why would I need to get in the car and go to the last resting place of their body shell? Their spirit wasn’t there anymore right?
This goes against a lot of what I was taught growing up but my stubborn mind was made up. Every culture and every religion has their own belief, and while I fully respect just about every one of them I just couldn’t accept them into my reality.
In many ways I still can’t.
But I sat at the cemetery the other day and found myself talking in a way that I hadn’t with them, in years. Open, outloud, honest and raw. What was supposed to be a quick visit turned into over an hour. I had no plans of things to say but there was never a lull in things to talk about. There was laughs to break up the tears that flowed free.
When I walked back to the car there was a sense of relief that I hadn’t felt in quite some time, and suddenly I was aware of something else.
I could NEVER tell my mother that she was right.