I pass Nichols Arboretum every day on my bus treck to and from campus.  I haven’t been back there since last July when I attended the river bank preservation dedication.  The university restored a piece of the river bank.  My aunt and uncle donated a sum of money for a canoe landing there, which entitled them to place a rock with a plaque memorializing my parents between the river, the canoe landing and the path.  It’s a beautiful place, and one my parents loved.  Dad and his sister, my aunt, played in that river just upstream when they were children.  He and Mom always lived on water.  So it’s a fitting memorial.  And every morning and every evening as I pass by the entrance I say a little hello to them.  But I haven’t been back to see the rock or the river.

Today I got brave, stowed my stuff in a locker at the gym and walked down to the river.  The sky was leaden, almost ready to rain…or snow.  But moving quietly down the soft path through the woods the sasafrase trees were deep golden, the squirrels were running around looking for food,  the air was sweet, and the silence was almost complete.  I loitered in the woods, avoiding the moment of returning to the river bank.  The woods were so similar to where I and my brothers and sister grew up and played.  They felt so much like home.  I wanted to stay there a bit longer.  Where it was safe, and where I could imagine I was a kid again.

After loitering too long I meandered down the hill to the river, and at first didn’t look toward the rock.  The water is higher than it was in July, the trees are beautiful.  There was a class sitting on the steps discussing something, people jogging along the path.   I wandered over to the rock and read the poem there, as if it wasn’t already etched into my heart.  I touched their names, felt my heart swell, and walked down to the river to study the current and get my composure back.   People stopped to read the plaque and wondered aloud “who these people are”.  I didn’t say anything.

At the dedication last July my young 10 year old cousin told us that there was an ancient tradition among some tribe of people that said you should place a small stone on a tombstone to show the person that they were loved.  I thought that was pretty deep for a ten year old.  Today I placed a pink stone on top of the rock, told them I loved them, and walked back up to campus.  Moving on, going forward, remembering the past.  Sounds like a 504 theme for the week.  I have a rock with a plaque that helps me remember, that provides a focus for thought, a place to put the pain, a place to leave it for the time being so that I can keep on keeping on.