Giving Voice
The cemetery overlooking the Columbia River rested just a couple of miles from Silverdale, a small town surrounded by flat wheat fields and watched over by two monumental mountains, like sentries overlooking the land. The cemetery reminded Chris of a pond where lily pads poked up and floated on the murky surface. It was a typically wet and mossy early December. Here and there a few patches of ground hugged the surface like seaweed clinging to life. He stepped across the entrance and walked through the grass.
“So these are all unmarked graves?” he said.
Linda walked with him. “People can’t always afford to buy monuments, so they bury their loved ones and no one can see where they are. You have to go to the cemetery office and look on a chart.”
“It feels weird to know there
