Today for my Sunday afternoon outing I went to a graveyard. It must of the been the common thought as many were there, putting Christmas wreaths on their loved ones resting place and other momentos of love.

I drove past two of the grave sites of young people who passed in our small community, a young woman, K,  born 1985 and a young man, B, of 1986. (They died within a year of each other). Both have beautiful markers, with care and love carved on them. The young man even has a mail box, welded shut, with letters from his loved ones, a heaven address marked. Mom and Dad's headstone next to him, already prepared even though their birth dates are in the 1960s.

The girl, K, who perished in a car accident had her friend, a young man, with her that fateful night. The young man had severe injuries including a back injury that should have rendered him unable to walk. However,  a man that appeared at the scene who assisted the injured young man to the nearest house. But once the injured young man arrived to safety, the man who helped had simply disappeared with no traces to be found.

Now, the other young man, B, born in 1986 was someone my son knew from the community. B was about 2 years younger and had just gotten back from serving in Iraq before he passed. However, it was not the war that killed him, but a simple ride on a motorcycle. The same way my son died. On a short ride.

My son mentioned this young man several times to me. I think in some hidden way, it was another piece of inner knowing that his life too would be short.

Walking through the cemetery I looked through the dates etched in the stone, some now covered over with moss and faded from the rain and snow.

Leaving behind their outer shell for those who are left behind to mourn.

I quietly await my turn in line.