Memorial Day

My Yiayia (Greek for Gandmother) used to tell me that she visited my Pappoús (Greek for Grandfather) every Memorial Day.  He was a WWII vet who was given a letter of commendation for saving his captain's life.  He died shortly after I was born, so I don't know him, but everyone just loved him. They said he was funny and kind. 

For the last four years, my Yiayia and my mother are barried next to my Pappoús.  So visiting this Memorial Day was an emotional ball.  I hate driving there, but I love being there.  It's like writing an e-mail or text.  You can't see the other side of the conversation, but you know they are there; if that makes sense.  I just feel whole, like a family again.

My aunt plants flowers every Memorial Day around the family headstone.  This year my children and their cousins (my brother's children) were there to help.  I remember planting flowers every spring with my mother.  I remember my grandmother's affinity to the rose bushes we had on the side of our house.  She was come in bloody from the thorns, but she loved to prune and trim and clip bouquets. 

It was a nice few hours to spend with everyone talking and laughing and just being together again.