Ever since I was a little girl, my family has put flowers on our relatives' headstones at the cemetary next door to my grandparents' house on Memorial Day.
To take next door to the cemetary.
For Grandma Dorothy and Grandpa Vern.
Aunt Marie and Uncle Howard.
Aunt Mary and Uncle Delmar.
Baby Rachel who no one got to meet because she left the world before she was brought into it.
Minnie and Charles.
Grandma's first husband Harry who died in the war.
W.E., the uncle who built our house at the turn of the century.
And Great Grandpa Walter and Great Grandma Hazel.
Hazel died in our house.
In our living room in 1953.
She was 57 years old.
18 years before I was born.
Right there where my couch sits.
And my youngest, Gigi, knows this.
And she's been talking about Hazel a lot lately.
"Hazel said she likes my shoes."
"I think Hazel would want this for dinner."
A five year old is fascinated by things from the past.
Well, my five year old is.
She's always asking how she is related to so and so.
"Who is that holding my Grandpa Bob in that picture when he was a baby?"
"Do I remember Great Great Grandpa?"
"Right here? Hazel died right here?"
It's all fascinating to her.
And maybe she has been talking to Hazel.
I hope she's telling Gigi to be a good girl.
She needs all the advice she can get...