I appreciate cemeteries. The peacefulness, the quiet, the reverence of them. I find myself walking through them often. Looking at the names and reading the epitaphs on the headstones, 'Beloved mother, wife and daughter'

'She never took no for an answer

and pushed ahead when others paused.

But a kinder, gentler woman

you will never meet again.'

I knew and know a few women like that. I can only imagine the strength the woman, who lies below me now, had. I bowed my head for a moment then continued on down the path.

The dates on some of the stones give me pause from time to time. To see '1791 - 1813' all I can think is what or who took the life of a twenty two year old? Was it illness, war, some kind of accident, maybe murder? It also makes me wonder what life was like back then. Seeing what we have today, I can barely grasp what life would of been like without those luxuries. Still others pass after sixty, seventy or eighty years of life, what a legacy they might have left.

Walking down the path again, I notice folks placing flowers or keepsakes at certain graves. Some with smiles in remembrance and others with tears. One old man sits at the same grave every day. I asked him once why. He told me this was his wife and that he was never there for her when she was alive, so now he sits here, without her by his side, to know how she felt. I can respect that.

My bodyguard Jim always excuses himself for a few moments at a certain point in my wondering. He goes over to a small grave and kneels by it. I use the time to smoke a cigarette. He comes back, never a word said, and we carry on our way. Once, when he was not with, I went to the grave. A plain small marker with the inscription "Here lies Belinda, our angle - our daughter. 1928-1932". I have been to his home and met his wife, I never knew. I look at the man who looks out for me with different eyes now.

The resting place of the dead, no matter how or why they died, has always been sacred to me. In the years I've spent going though different cemeteries, I have paid to have some of the markers replace. Those that have, because of age or neglect, fallen into rubble. Your life and your legacy are represented in your gravestone for those who did not know you. My grandfathers marker was a wooden plank that got harder and harder to read each year. So as a young man in Italy, I worked hard to provide for my family, but I kept a little from each pay and after two years, had enough to buy him a stone marker. I think my father suspects, but as far as I know, my family has no idea who did such a kind thing. For me it was respect for who I come from, I don't need a pat on the back for doing whats right.

No matter if it's sunny or raining, a grave site never changes. People lie here at peace or unrest, depending on how they spent their life, but the feeling remains. The feeling of passive rest. Your days are done, enjoy the sleep. I have already bought my spot, did it a few years ago. A friend did the same, when he passes, his marker is already done .... 'HERE LIES ***** ******** ✬ HE DIED DOING THE RIGHT THING'. Mine should say 'He tried'.

The walk always makes me love life more. There are things I need to do and get done. It gives me ambition to do better. As we near the car, Jim as always, holds the door open. Today I touched his shoulder, "She loves you dearly you know." was all I said to him. He blinked a few times, then smiled at me, "I know Boss. Thank you." He closed the door, got in behind the wheel and took me to my first appointment for the day.

It hurts when it's closer to home.

Jim walked beside me as I traveled the path once again. This time, it was me who was hurting. I looked at the familiar stones, but did not see them. As we came to a fork in the path, Jim shouldered me down the one I have not took.

I saw new names and epitaphs I've not seen before. I payed closer attention to them. "Boss ...." he paused, "Orlin .... I am sorry to hear of your loss. I hope the trip was uneventful for you." I stopped and stared daggers into his skull. Who was he to address me as ...... I took a moment to breath and remember who was with me. "Thank you Jim. The trip was fine. I got to see my family again and be with folk I have not seen in years. It will take a bit, but I'll be fine." I looked at the man and remembered his daughter was buried no more then one hundred yards from us.

I reflected back on my niece's funeral. So many people loved her, but who would not have? She was young and interesting and funny, just starting out in life. Married with a four year old boy ..... I dabbed at my eyes. Jim was polite enough to be interested in a bird chirping in a nearby tree.

As we continued down the path, I saw several familiar faces pass us. To take my mind off the recent events, I tried to imagine what they were doing here and who they were looking for.

Wakes lasted through two or three nights. Food, tobacco, snuff, and liquor were plentiful. Out in the countryside, the liquor served consisted of whiskey or poteen, which is a very potent and illegal Irish homemade brew. Laughter and singing, as well as crying, filled the air as mourners shared humorous stories involving the deceased. In addition to this seeming merriment, games were played. While this may appear to have been disrespectful of the dead, it was not the intention. It is thought that the merrymaking aspects of these wake customs were influenced by the Irish pagan heritage as well as the need to stay awake for such a long period of time. The church frowned upon these activities and tried hard to discourage the people from indulging in them, mostly to no avail.

Us Irish love the dead. They give us hope that we may be as great or respected as they were, especially if they were old. Irish wakes, beside a chance (like we need one) to drink, let us honor those who have passed, before they are in their final resting place.

This was my first and only time through here, but I gave it the respect very well deserved. I paused at a few graves, Payed my respects with a limerick or poem, then went on my way.