As I travel this path I see to the west a village and its church. I enter it. The east window is clear behind the altar, and rising up from it is a steep pasture, where cows graze. By the font, at the at east of the church is an Easter Garden, spilling over with primroses from the lanes nearby.
Beneath the hill is an extension to the churchyard. More than 30 years ago I stood before a tiny plot as my father’s ashes were laid there. Nine years ago I was there again, as my mother’s ashes were placed with his.
The steep pasture is there. The cows are long gone but the primroses return each spring. People I love, loved this place, as my parents loved this place. Would that we could all meet there again, in spirit.