I used to live relatively close to a private Catholic cemetery. It was so close that the bus picked me up and dropped me off there during my elementary years. There was a point when I imagined going on a road trip solely to visit cemeteries, but for whatever reason, it didn’t get any traction.
I have a lovely memory of that little cemetery. Kurt, Matt, Lesa, and I walked back to my house from a friend’s place one night. My parents knew we were coming, but the time we’d be home was uncertain since our walk was on a long country road, wound across a hidden path, through a cemetery, and down my long gravel driveway. This was the time before cell phones, after all.
On the way, we stopped at the cemetery. As boys and girls in their teenage years often do, the four of us coupled up, ducking behind headstones. Not even one minute into our displays of affection, a light shone on us that startled us to attention like soldiers. It was my mom’s car!
Later, after dropping off the boys and my friends at home, my mom discussed my punishment. But I didn’t get it; in all my calculations, I had never in a million years thought she would think to go to the cemetery first. So I asked, “How did you know we were at the cemetery?”
“Jaclynn,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly, “You forget, I was your age once.”
Man, I miss her.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 