I live in a foreign country, so I could have taken almost any photo and called it foreign. Instead I decided to do something a little different. Remembrance Day quickly approaches. This post is my foreign experience of visiting the grave of my relative, Bud. He was a tail gunner in a Lancaster.
August 27, 2010
Well, I have finally made it to Hilsenheim.
I must say, I expected it to be warmer, but there is already a chill in the air. My dear cousin, it feels as though autumn approaches.
I’m a little nervous coming here. My French dictionary is a helpful companion, but I am unable to speak the language beyond single words and a few broken phrases.
Everything seems foreign to me here, except for the name of this place, Hilsenheim, long since etched into my mind from the first time I read it on the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website.
You? No, you are no longer foreign to me now. I know you well, that mischievous personality, that quirky smile, I can almost hear your voice.
Not long now, cousin.
Your Cousin, LJ
August 28, 2010
I walked the Rue du Cimetiere this morning on my way to see you.
The gates were open when I arrived. I knew where you were.
The pebbled lane crunched under my feet as I walked along. The beauty there was foreign to me. The loving care was evident, each stone in living bloom.
The names too were all foreign to me, but seven. Seven stark white stones stood at attention in the far left corner.
You waited for me so patiently among them.
There were no words between us, but we needed none.
Your Cousin, LJ