I stood on the hill among tombstones hiding in the tall grass and wildflowers of the old Silver City Cemetery. Helena could be seen in the distance just to the southeast. Though the streets of Helena were busy with the comings and goings of all kinds of folks, the little town of Silver City wasn’t much more than a name. Had events taken a turn years earlier, she would have won the right of being the capital of Montana. But that wasn’t to be.
The cemetery was quiet except for the kind gentleman who pushed a mower to try to clear the memories of weeds and to deter rattlesnakes, I would venture. With my boots on, I walked around and snapped a few pictures of forgotten names on stones that had been so worn away no inscription could be read. Sunken places in the earth whispered stories of those whose remains lay all but forgotten.
As I stood there pondering the tales that would never be told, wondering about the lives of those who had come to this harsh and beautiful land, a van came up the trail. It slowly made its way up the hill. A young lady got out of the driver’s seat and walked around to the other side of the van. Out stepped an elderly gentleman with a cap on his head. His elbow lay in the palm of the young lady’s hand, her other hand placed gently on his arm. He spoke to the man who had turned off the mower. “I just came to put a flower on her grave.” He spoke of the grave of his wife. In the elderly man’s hand, he held a purple flower on a single stem.
The lady guided him through the newly chopped clumps of grass and into the weeds yet to be trimmed. “Watch out for rattlesnakes, Grandpa!” They made their way to the grave of his beloved. He bent down, pulled a few weeds from the front of the tombstone to reveal her name, then stooped lower to place the purple flower on her grave. A warm gentle breeze blew as yellow wildflowers danced to the song of memories. I turned and walked away to allow them the sacred magic of the moment.
Among the tombstones was that of my great aunt, Georgia Ann Hunter Brannin, 1879-1923. “Old Moss”, a Mexican man who came with the Brannin family from New Mexico to Silver City, is also buried there but the wooden marker that once marked his grave is rotted and scattered among the weeds.
2016