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Since 1991 when my grandfather died, maybe I’ve been to this cemetary twice. Maybe. I don’t really remember now. Visiting made me consider why.
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I try not to evaluate memories because the valuation is completely arbitrary. Instead, I prefer contemplating and allowing a slow subconsious search. Force is pointless; but then again, I'm unsure what wisdom is available.
Before arriving, I assumed how I might feel walking through. These are supposedly solemn areas, archetypes of thoughtfulness and respect for ancestral times — and perhaps intentionally isolating. At least that was the unquestioned vibe I got from all the memories of the few funerals I attended.
For instance: before the calculation, I swore I was a child when he past away. Yet, I was 19 the last time I remember seeing dad cry.
Why did I feel so young? But more important to me now, why did it take 33 years to return?