I wrestle the strap from my shoulder and let the backpack slide to the ground. Pushing the Tilley forward over my face, I lay my head back on the mound to take a lie down for a little while. The date etched on the marker indicates the women was buried some twenty eight years ago. <br /> <br /> Artificial colours saddled the stone landscape, while a gentle breeze pushes union jack flags pegged at random headstones. The sun warms my body, as I look for peace in this resting place. A distant memory recalls this spot, on the day she was put in the ground. The grave site was covered in daiseys. To my discovery, that was her favorite flower. I wish I knew what her favorite colour was? The answer to that questions lies here now.<br /> <br /> Some years later, I came back to visit this site. My daughter cried after the visit. The tears were explained when she realized her dad didn't have a mommy or daddy anymore.<br /> <br /> Knowing then, what has taken years to realize now, I would have made a change. This is not regret but understanding. The words I'm sorry, echo off the black granite, while distant memories seek solace from the words.<br /> <br /> The caretaker of the grounds interrupts my somber solitude with a question of concern. The living postured with the dead has given him cause to come over and check on a visitor. I reply that I am fine and just stopped by to commiserate with some lost relatives. He pushes on shaking his head at what he has witnessed.<br /> <br /> To an islander, home will always be the rock called Newfoundland when you come from away. My mother is not here anymore to greet me but is still resident that gives me pause to remember.   Submitted By: sean conway