A Visit to the Garden of Stones

In the autumn of my ninth year, we went to see my grandmother. The loss of my grandfather was still a fresh wound. The field where he rested was a short walk from her home, so we went to pay our respects.

We found the stone marker. My grandmother’s sorrow was a heavy cloak around her, so we asked if she would join us for a walk through the rest of the grounds. She said she needed a moment alone and urged us to go see the other family plots and explore.

We walked among the stones of relatives we had never met, reading the faded names. Our path eventually led us to a newer section, where the monuments stood taller and were made of polished, light stone. One in particular drew us near. It was for a child named Elara. Scattered around its base were small, painted wooden animals.

Then, a scent filled the air.