Graveyards have good associations for me: Visiting the graves of her husband and son with my beloved grandmother, sledding at the rear of the Settler's Cemetery. I found them tangible history, a solid reminder that those things happened to real people. They're an excellent place to go if you just want to be alone and think - most people who see you will assume you are mourning and respect that.
The family plot has gotten crowded in the years since I visited with Mamma. In the intervening years, she was interred there. Others were. I used to think there was something wrong with me because, when I go there, the only memories that return to me are of Mamma. Looking at Mother's headstone, for example, might bring back memories of the funeral. No rich, full memories. The family plot is a Mamma place and it doesn't matter who is buried there.
I find the memories come to me more in daily life. A patch of daisies or a song on the radio evokes them more than a slab of marble with a name engraved. I once wept in the grocery store over a display of Kit-Kat bars, for a man whose grave I've never even seen. But in the graveyard? Not so much.
Years ago, I made the decision to donate my body to science. Explaining to one of my minions that this decision meant I'd likely have no grave, at least not one chosen by the family, she asked where she was supposed to go to remember me. I gave her examples, but I know that when the time comes, she won't have to make any effort to remember me.
She'll be weeping in the Barbie aisle over a woman whose grave she's never seen. Because graves are for formal occasions and remembering our dead, really remembering them, is informal.
