I just discovered a big water blister on the second toe of my left foot.

Every Memorial Day for the past decade or so, I have made a pilgrimage to my brother’s grave in the Orem City Cemetery. I walk. His gravesite is simple — beneath the cluster of scrub oak just north of the upper road:

Joseph N. Beeson.

Mar. 29, 1970 – Aug. 20, 1990.

2 Nephi 1:15

For some reason (age? Worn out shoes?) it took me longer than usual. The 9.4 mile walk from my home here in American Fork took me two hours and fifteen minutes. I very much enjoy my Memorial Day walks. I talk to my deceased brother as I take State Street from A.F. to 8^th East in Orem. (I try not to move my lips or gesticulate too much lest I look like a crazy man.)

When I walk, I pray, too. It’s just a great, solo, annual walk.

I arrived at the Orem Cemetery this year in the heat of 4:45 PM. The place was packed with a phantasmagoria of color and cars and flora and families. I walked the fence line on the north side up to the shaded memorial bench where I always sit — just a dozen feet from my brother’s grave. I took a picture. I always do. This year I was amazed at the liveliness of the cemetery (has that phrase ever been written?)

As I took off my shoes, I had a uniquely revelatory moment. I won’t share it in this column because it is deeply personal. But one thing I will share is the follow-up to my revelatory moment. As you read it, the message may seem like a painfully obvious insight–a banal or simplistic or feigningly trying-to-be-profound, chicken soupy message. Oh well. As I sat on that wonderful granite memorial bench just feet from my brother’s grave after 9.4 miles of afternoon heat and as an aspiring blister formed on the second toe of my left foot, I heard these words in my brain:

Keep walking.

It came as a metaphor. Keep on truckin’. Don’t give up. You’re doing fine. Keep on keepin’ on.

The words went from my brain to my heart. My heart beat faster. The colors in the cemetery became brighter. My achy feet didn’t feel so achy. I slipped my shoes back on, tightened the laces, kissed my palm, and slapped it on my brother’s gravestone. (I think I killed a few ants in the slap, too. It isn’t, after all, the A.F. Cemetery — the best kept cemetery in the state!)

The odd thing about the whole ordeal was the urge to write about it. To put it on paper. So here it is. I’ve done it.

In my walk to visit my brother, were there blisters? Uh, yes.

Were there sunburned legs? Mm Hm.

Were there bad drivers? Rude drivers?  Detours and roads closed? Yep.

Were there those who offered me a ride? LOTS! I had missteps and trash to hop. I encountered dirt and puddles and cracks and low-hanging branches and yapping dogs and honkers and shouters and breezes and beauties and greenery and dysfunctional sprinklers and bees and butterflies and a snake. There was a snake.

Yes. My walk toward the grave had it all.

Sam Beeson is an English teacher at American Fork High School and a published author. His latest book, The Unvalentine, is available on Amazon.