I know I've passed one of life's markers now that I want to visit cemeteries. I remember being baffled by my grandparents' desire to go to the cemetery on Memorial Day. It seemed so morbid and a distraction from good barbecue. Now I like to spend part of my lunch breaks and Saturday afternoons exploring them.

I find more than memorials. There is a lot of life in a beautiful old cemetery. My brother hooked me on the history of heirloom iris and peony. It's fascinating to see old grave sites with stands of heritage iris blooming. There are, for instance, mounds of Flavescens iris, a pale yellow iris from 1813, growing circles around headstones. And the peony. Oh, the peony. Peony drooping from the weight of blossoms larger than the breadth of my hand. Peonies in pinks and reds and whites. Peonies to remember loved ones. Peonies like my grandparents and great grandparents grew in their cottage gardens.

I can think of no better way to be remembered, even to strangers, than with a flower growing where I am buried. A peony blowing in the Kansas wind. Symbol of the good work yet to come. More work than can be held in one life's hand, more purpose than is understood only on earth's breath.