Late in the afternoon
Most every summer Sunday
Most every holiday with nothing
Much at all to do
As three o'clock came round
We knew where she'd be found
Sitting in the back seat with her
Wrinkled yellow photographs.
Into the car we'd pile, off to the edge of town
It was a cemetery Sunday drive
Turned upside down.
But times were different then
And she'd remember when
And tell us stories
That we'd both heard many times before.
In unmarked graves they say
The children silent lay
The church a haven
For the families come from far away.
Into the car we'd pile, off to the edge of town
It was a cemetery Sunday drive
Turned upside down.
If only to remember one day
The line of tiny crosses that were washed away.
The seasons change their colors
You might wake up accepting things
Are really gone.
It's not so strange not to abandon hope
Of finding markings for her first three daughters
And a son.
Into the car we'd pile, off to the edge of town
It was a cemetery Sunday drive
Turned upside down.
Think of the children.