How to Deal with Death as an Amish Child
I have no photographic evidence of my existence as an Amish child. Many years later, I learned that graveyards serve as the pictures of my history. They’re the photos of my past, the proof that my ancestors existed.
Several years ago I happened upon a drive-through cemetery lying in an evergreen forest along the Connecticut River. The grass looked like a freshly vacuumed verdant carpet, perfectly tailored to fit around the base of each soaring tree, not a pine needle out of place. The firs, unmoving and formidable, stood like palace soldiers overlooking and guarding the remnants of the dead.
I no longer believed that depositing human remains in a plot in the ground was a good idea. What was the point in using up precious natural resources for storing bones? Why store bones in the first place? Yet I was still drawn to beautiful, peaceful cemeteries. This one was unusually serene. And pretty. Whoever designed it had made it fit in with the natural landscape, not take away from Earth’s beauty.
I spotted what appeared like a driveway around a particularly stately tree-like the half-circle drives in front of mansions with Bentleys and Porsches. The irresistible lure of the surrounding solitude pulled me in. I parked the car and turned off the engine.
