I went for a walk on Good Friday. Between my father's apartment and the Mullet river — no lie — there's a small graveyard. I cut through it, pleased that so many of the century-old cement plank markers hadn't been vandalized and mended, carefully avoided those standing at sites because of the holiday.
In the corner overlooking the middle school and the river, I stumbled upon an area reserved for children. It was the saddest piece of real estate I've ever walked. Some of the markers only had year listed, some only a day. One didn't even offer a name: "INFANT SON OF S.L. LUECK."
Another marker had the dates 1903–1920. Two images crossed my mind: one of a patient young lady who liked to baby sit and another of a sullen girl forced to dine the children's table during Thanksgiving.
I wonder if there was solace for the parents in sharing. See? It is not uncommon. A dozen others here, and this the small town's smallest cemetery. I doubt it was any comfort, and hope to never know.
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