Yesterday we buried my grandparents at a small graveyard in Canton, South Dakota. They now lie near generations of their forebearers atop a small, windswept hill surrounded by farm fields. Two people who lived and worked in some of the remotest and far flung corners of the globe have returned to rest beneath the blue sky and broad vistas of the prairie. It fits perfectly.
I love the prairie. It is harvest time and the fields are golden and tan. Traveling beneath a bright cobalt sky dotted by swiftly rolling clouds conveys a sense of timelessness. I find it hard to feel sad as I think of my grandparents lying quietly year after year as the seasons march over top. Maybe I would feel different if I stood atop the hill in the dead of winter but yesterday it was golden and it felt inevitable and right.
The prairie always feels inevitable. It can be easy to forget just how vast this country is when you live in a city. The prairie and its open horizons are a necessary correction. After 9/11 I remember scanning the horizon thinking about a hijacked plane flying toward the building I was standing in. Those fears drained away a few weeks later as I was driving west. These plains are too large. No act of terrorism or war endangers them. They cannot be destroyed by anything short of a global catastrophe. That recognition brings me peace. My grandparents will lie undisturbed for all time.
Peace is acceptance. I have struggled to accept the loss of my grandparents. While they were by no means young, the loss of each seemed premature when the time came. Despite that longing, I felt peace yesterday. Not because I have come to terms with their departure but because the land has welcomed them home. They have come full circle back to the endless horizons that watched the beginning of a great journey and now watch over a well-earned rest. I believe they are at peace. I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment