This weekend we went to the UP. Home.
It’s not where I was raised, but it’s where I grew up. It’s where my very (very) close family all lives side-by-side – 5 houses across.
Last weekend, we had a Viking funeral pyre for her there. I took some of her funeral flowers up north and rearranged them into a spray. My cousins and brother and S.O. built a log raft, we put it into the lake and set it on fire. I re-read her eulogy and we watched everything burn. We also kept a vigil campfire lit for 4 days.
So now I have to put my baby back to the earth. This place is the place I’ll keep her forever. It’s also the place I’ll put my late husband.
I was never emotionally ready to bury my husband. I’ve kept him with me over the past 7 years. About a year ago, I’d decided I was ready to let him go but I didn’t have a place. Now, I’ll put them together. My husband, her step-father, will be next to her.
Maybe that’s why I kept so hard a hold of my husband, not letting his body go – because the universe knew that I’d need him to be with my daughter? I don’t know. I do know. I don’t know.
Six of us went to pick a spot on Saturday afternoon. We ended up purchasing 24 plots. Room for 96 urns. My entire family – Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Brothers, Sisters – we all made the decision to stay together.
My baby and my husband will be the first two in what is now the family section of the tiny cemetery in the UP. But that won’t be until next summer. The 4th of July. In the UP, that week is called homecoming week. That will also be the 8th anniversary of my husband’s passing.
So, here I am, the new owner of several plots. Stupid plots. Amazing plots on a hill surrounded by maple trees. Room for everyone I love.
Picking out a burial site for your child and your husband when you’re 40 years old is a shitty matter. 0 stars. Would not recommend.