Along Route 66, south of Vinita, Oklahoma, a sign caught my eye and I turned in a little cemetery, bordered with a new white fence along the highway.


Driving part way down the worn grass drive, I stopped to survey the site, bordered on three sides by Oklahoma fields.


A trickle of a creek ran through it and there was a bridge although you could walk over it on the drive. Back in the corner were a couple of fenced sites.


Coming in, I passed the larger monuments in preferential spots and headed for the smaller graves at the back. Walking on icy grass with bitter cold, I tried to get a feel for this resting place. Birth dates went back into the 1800s, some of our state’s first settlers.

The lamb graced the grave of a child.


Benson Pack died a young man, his life counted in years, months and days…


This caught my eye. A child’s grave obviously.


When I walked around to the front, I was deeply touched that a child who lived only two days was so missed almost twenty-eight years later.


Maybe there is a record of who lies here, over by the fence, under the worn monument.


There’s a quiet dignity and sweetness in this homemade marker.


The cold wet weather drove me back to my car and back to the highway. I’m all for cremation for many reasons, but I appreciate the people whose stories I will imagine from the worn tombstones by Route 66. Peace.