By Joanne Peterson

This morning I met my cousin Carrie for “girl talk” and coffee.  We had plenty to talk about, including the “Cousin Reunion” we had in the fall, welcoming the two brothers from Mesa and Anchorage to celebrate with those of us living in Washington. 

What fun!  Today, we lamented that both Darrell and Roger live too far away, and – sadly – that Roger has been fighting cancer for some time.

After coffee with Carrie, I ran a few errands and then impulsively drove to the local cemetery where my parents and my friend Jackie are buried.  A near-perfect January afternoon, chilly sweater-weather.

I parked my car and walked, considering the losses of people I have cared about.  I noticed that this afternoon I was the only living person at the cemetery.

Walking among the silent gravestones, I remembered a past visit to the Idaho grave of Ernest Hemingway, my author idol when I was in college.  (I had an enormous black and white poster of him on my dorm room wall, showing the author from the shoulders up, bearded, wearing a dark turtleneck sweater.  I kept that poster for years.) 

When I visited Hemingway’s grave, I walked around the wooded Ketchum cemetery gathering pinecones, which I stacked into a pyramid on his gravestone.  The last thing I saw, as I walked out of the cemetery and turned for a final look, was the silhouette of those pinecones. 

Today, I didn’t take flowers when I visited the gravesites of my parents and my friend Jackie.  I didn’t know I was going until I was halfway there.  Anyway, I knew I would find something to offer them: evergreen branches, fallen leaves, a few smooth stones… some gift of nature. 

I found windblown bits of spruce and gathered them into bouquets for the vases on the markers, tucking small pinecones among the branches.  I tidied around the graves of my parents, my friend and a few strangers, walked slowly to the car and drove home – introspective, cold and weary. 

Several phone messages awaited me. The first message was from my cousin Darrell.  His brother Roger died in Anchorage this morning, perhaps while Carrie and I were talking about his spirit and tenacity, the sweetness of his relationship with his wife Sylvia. About how nobody could demonstrate more optimism, generosity and good humor than Roger: the artist, the most creative one of us, the “baby” of the cousins.

Other phone messages awaited my attention, but I couldn’t call anyone.  I could only sit and fight back tears, missing my cousin Roger, my loving and lovable parents, my friend Jackie and other dear ones who are gone now.

Believing they are in a better place doesn’t bring immediate comfort when what I want is to hear their voices and hold their hands.  I am grateful for those past relationships, grateful for the people in my present, and hopeful for the future.  I guess that’s enough, but I feel sad tonight.