Symbols of You: Treasured Connections After We Are Gone

I used to dream of having our family together day after day for months (especially my teens who are always on the go). However, the novelty of “family togetherness” wore off quickly during the pandemic and I missed my alone time. To find the solitude I needed, I started the practice of walking a couple of miles every morning.

I am fortunate to live in a safe area with beautiful surroundings, but the most enjoyable part of my route has been to walk through the city cemetery.

The grounds at the cemetery are well-kept and the paths are lined with decades-old trees. It is a heavenly scene in the mornings when the sun comes up in the east and the light breaks through the branches and leaves. The smell of freshly mowed grass or rain on the pavement whispers to me to slow my pace and breathe. Normally I struggle to set aside the endless list of tasks running through my head but not here. Something happens to my soul. The stillness is overwhelming and my mind yields to it, every time.

Recently I have started to take note of the small ornaments and trinkets being left on various headstones. For a few days, I took different paths through the cemetery to see what I could find. The stuffed frog, the toy car, and the can of Pepsi, among other things made me curious.

Perhaps the frog represented the comfort of childhood bedtime stories; the toy car—a shared hobby with a parent or grandparent; the can of soda—summers on the lake or late night memories with a friend. I wondered why these objects were chosen. What did they represent about the deceased, about the giver?

One day my 16-year-old son agreed to go on a walk with me. When we arrived at the cemetery I pointed out my observation with the trinkets. We talked about some of them and their possible meanings. I asked him what he would choose to leave on my grave? As his mother, I wanted him to say, “A big heart, because I appreciate all you do and I know you love me so much.” He gave no response, so I filled the silence by switching my question to “What would people put on your grave? What would be your symbol?” We chuckled as he said, “Maybe an Xbox controller?”

As much as I wanted to start a deep conversation about his life and what he was doing with his time, I didn’t. I remember at that age feeling like death was so distant and would never happen to my invincible self.

We stood there for a minute in silence and then continued our walk home. A few weeks later, my nephew Ammon was killed in a tragic car accident. He was also 16-years-old and my son’s best friend. The loss has been indescribable. Often, I fail to console my son, my sister, or myself.

My walks are different now. I see the pain in some and the acceptance in others when they arrive to honor their loved ones: The elderly man who sits in his car and reads his paper to be close to his wife, the family that picnics in the cemetery a few times during the summer, and the mother who mourns her son that died too young.

The clunky trinkets that once seemed random and out of place to me, don’t clash with the traditional flowers or windmills anymore. They are living exactly where they need to be.

– Michelle Mulford

Michelle Mulford and her husband are the parents of four kids. She has always been fascinated by the way words have the power to heal a heart or inspire change. She feels that the most beautiful gifts in life are found in the untouched, simple things and that kindness can move mountains.