Early this morning I walked with the puppy.  The grass was wet, the air was cool and thick with spring fog.  The sun was barely touching the tips of the trees.  Suddenly I was transported back in time to similar moments when we camped as a young family on this Memorial weekend.  I could smell the wet canvas of our tent, hear the soft murmers of my parents outside, feel the scratchy sand-filled sleeping bags, knew the warmth of being loved and being exactly where I wanted to be.

This afternoon my husband and I will take his elderly aunt out to the cemetery where his parents are buried.  We will put flowers there, lupin and lilac, and the first rose to bloom from his mother’s rose bush that we moved to our yard.  We will remember them.

I don’t have a cemetary plot to remember my parents.  But I have memories as their monuments in my heart.  This morning Mom and Dad were right by my side standing in the damp grass watching the sun rise in the glowing tree tops.