Cemetery Director: A Poem by a Concerned Angel Mom

Cemetery Director,

I understand if you’re 

shorthanded these days

during COVID, and during 

a crisis where cars and

trucks line up for shots

and at food banks. I know

we both may not understand

the path each of us has walked,

but I had hoped you’d hear my

concerns. 

Yes, I understand, Cemetery 

Director it is clean up week

of Christmas wreaths, and I

picked up all of mine after

New Year’s Day. Then

I decorated the children’s 

graves for Valentine’s Day.

I prepared half of the graves

that would otherwise be 

bereft of flowers and care

for St. Patrick’s Day before

I lost …

I lost again.

The newest graves remained

okay, while some of the 

older ones for which I care

lost everything.  I know you 

say, Cemetery Director, that

sometimes family members 

come through and take up

decorations they dislike, and

what, I guess, you fail to hear

is that I have cared for these

older graves, like Lots 

711 and 708 for eight months,

and all their flowers remained.

No one ever visits Lots 

711 and 708.

Then you say your guys

clean up areas that look

“messy” or “old,” when

several of the graves on

the Kinder Memorial

Walk had new or recent

flowers. But I guess it’s 

not your guys when I

find the cigarette 

pressed in the ground

of Lot 708, the fairy

in the leaves beside 

Olivia Kate, and tire

tracks over Alma’s grave.

Oh, I will speak in 

numbers with you,

Cemetery Director, 

as I know that is what

they are to you. 

Then you speak of

my daughter’s grave,

and I must make space

for the tractor when

April comes, and I

say, “I can take care 

of her grave and cut

the grass myself.”

But, I wonder, Cemetery

Directory, had I not 

called you today, would

you have dared to touch

my baby’s grave?

By Rebecca T. Dickinson