Heavy rain, fog and general unpleasantness, basically, made the trip a white-knuckle affair for most of the way. But it was worth it, of course, when I got to see my sisters, a brother and his son, and a couple brothers-in-law.
The next day I made another pilgrimage, this one to visit my son:
It is never easy to come here; miles ahead I get tense, sad and stressed, remembering those terrible days leading up to this place. But I must come here when I can--not easy since it is over 6 hours away. When I am here, all the bad things wash away. I look at the old, moss-grown graves, the quiet stone chapel and somehow I find a sort of peace. Leaving is the hardest of all. I washed the stone, cleaning away cobwebs and splashed-up dirt, and that activity helped too--I was doing something useful.
Then I just stayed, looking at the distant blue of the mountains and remembering...remembering. Then it was time to say goodbye and drive away. So hard to not look back.
The next morning this sight greeted me as I left the park:
A sign perhaps? Or just weather being weather?
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