When the weather was sultry, on a day where the sun was suspended high above and blistering the Earth, my beau and I spotted a lonely sign on an equally lonely road: “Shiloh.” This was a spur-of-the-moment adventure.
We drove along a winding, curving, canopied asphalt road, searching for the cemetery, examining each fork in the road, turning this way and that, until the entrance appeared:
This was a small cemetery, not as old as I imagined it would be, but still peppered with graves as old as 1896 and as new as last year.
Walking alone, I stumbled on a bouquet of yellow silk roses, lifeless on the dusty earth, its jaundiced petals immobile, even in the slight breeze.
Looking left and right, I saw no close-by grave. To whom do these belong?
I picked them up, and at the first grave I spotted – a solitary, lonely headstone – I dropped the bouquet and said a prayer for someone’s mom.
©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.