If you follow the sidewalk to the front of our house and look to your right just before you start up the porch steps, you’ll see a narrow, well-worn path. And if you follow that path across the yard and around the corner, you’ll see it leads to the opening for the crawl space that allows access to all the things that normally live under a house.
That path has been created over the years by a little puppy (that is no longer little or a puppy) who is dreadfully afraid of storms. That’s why the crawl space door stays down—so he’ll have a place to hide when Mother Nature loses her temper. And of course, he knows when the storms are coming. His puppy-sense (think Spidey-sense, but for inclement weather) always alerts him, and if Buddy (aka Bud dog, aka Bud man, aka Buddy pup) disappears, we know either a storm is coming or it’s gonna get really hot—because not only is the crawl space safe, it’s also cool.
Not long ago, as I was driving through Memory Gardens, I noticed another narrow, well-worn path. Since I’m part cat and therefore naturally curious, I parked my van and started walking, following the path to see where it might lead. About halfway across that particular garden, it came to an end, close to several graves, meaning I had no way of knowing the exact destination of our frequent visitor. But every grave in that area was years old, meaning that path had been years in the making.
Some of you may not understand the need to visit the grave of someone you love. When I originally typed that sentence, I used the past tense . . . loved . . . but I quickly realized their love is still very much alive. It didn’t die when that person did; otherwise, that path would not exist. And for many people, being close to the physical remains of their loved one gives them comfort—and peace. You can see it when they are hesitant to leave the visitation. You can see it when they don’t want the funeral to start. You can see it when they linger at the graveside after the service. And that’s why there are narrow, well-worn paths across many cemeteries. Because people will sit for hours and talk to the ones they’ve lost. They’ll run by just for a minute to tell them how the day has gone, or to get them caught up on the latest family news.
Just as my Bud dog finds his comfort and his peace at the end of his path, so do those who have a deep need to be close to someone they love but from whom they are now separated. It’s a yearning that nothing else can fill, and if they can no longer feel their touch . . . no longer hear their voice or look into their eyes . . . at least they can sit at the end of a well-worn path and visit for a while.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
