I drove all the way to St. Louis to put flowers on my mother’s grave for Mother’s Day, and I have no proof that I did.

I have a picture of the flowers.  Velvety roses from my cousin Theresa Orso Smythe’s garden, which she had the prescience to bring to breakfast this morning.  My cousin-friend read my mind.  Armed with her flowers in a little jar, a disposable cemetery vase from the stash which I keep in the Prius, and my water bottle, I traipsed around Section 14 looking for the Corley plot.  Sweat seeped through my Ann Tayor t-shirt.  My silly inadequate shoes barely held my feet steady as I navigated the hillside.

I finally went back to the car and telephoned the office to see if they could give me a bit of help.  A minute or so later, a pick-up truck slid in front of the Prius and John from the front desk guided me to my parents’ headstone.

We stood gazing at the ground. Your Mom died young, he said.  I told him that she had cancer.  He nodded, replying,   I have Stage 4 myself.  We studied each other’s faces for a few minutes and I murmured something consoling.  He shrugged.  He looked back down and asked, Is that your brother?, gesturing to Stephen’s name.  Yes, I acknowledged.  He glanced his question and I replied, He killed himself.

A few more exchanges and John finally said that he would leave me to my family.  I could picture them around me, watching him walk away, down the slight incline.  I placed the flowers and started to photograph the headstone when I realized that it bore a splatter of bird droppings.  Should I brush that away first? I asked myself. And then I laughed.  You’re standing over the grave of a woman who wanted to be buried in her backyard compost pile.  I don’t think she’d be offended by bird shit.

I got the giggles and ended up with a photo of lovely red roses and the top edge of the marble, in the right-hand corner of which lies that blob of excrement.

When I left Calvary, I drove to my brother Frank’s house to deliver a pair of baseball tickets and two paintings that he had bought from the Suite 100 gallery.  My nephew Devin came bounding out of the house followed by his sister Whitney’s little girl, Naomi.  My great-niece, whom I had not seen since before she could walk.

You’re old, she observed with the keen honesty of a five-year-old.  My grandma’s old but you’re older than she is. I admitted as much.  She said, Are you my auntie?  I explained, I’m your Grandpa’s sister.  She protested, No you’re not!  I know HER!   Smart and smart!  I tried to explain that her grandfather has four sisters but I don’t think I convinced her.

How come I never see you then? she asked.  I told her, Because I live far, far away.  Her lovely eyes grew large.  I bet you live ON THE HIGHWAY,  she cried, and I laughed.

I asked her if I could take her picture and she agreed. Her uncle — the 7th grader – told her to go stand by the tree, and I snapped several shots.  Then I asked my nephew to take one of me with Naomi, and he obliged.

A few minutes later, after Naomi had climbed into the driver’s seat of my car and pretended to steer, I told them both goodbye and started west.  I briefly toyed with the temptation to drive back north and get a better photo of Mom’s grave.  But then I shrugged.  My mother would laugh and say, Oh Mary, you got the picture that matters!  Don’t beat yourself up!  Tell Theresa “thank you” for the beautiful flowers!  And hug that baby for me.  She’d glance over to the children’s burial section, just east of where she lies. And then she’d smile, and put her arms around me, and I would know that she was entirely correct.

I got the shot that counts — a photo of our next generation.  Lucy’s legacy.

It’s the evening of the seventh day of the twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Tomorrow we honor our Mothers.  I feel that I have done so, by my journey home.  Life continues.