Sable Monroe

A while ago, my brother asked my mother a simple question.

“Where is Grandma buried?”

Her answer stunned both of us.

“I don’t remember.”

I wish I could tell you there was more to the conversation.

There wasn’t.

Somehow, the location of our grandmother’s grave had become something no one in the family seemed able to tell us.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

How does someone forget where they buried their own mother?

For years, I told myself there wasn’t much I could do. I lived in the United States. My grandmother had died in Jamaica. I assumed that if the people closest to her didn’t know, then maybe the answer was simply lost.

Then something changed.

After returning to Jamaica for the first time in nearly forty years, I realized I wasn’t finished asking questions.

I went back expecting to revisit places from my childhood. I wanted to see the roads I remembered, stand in front of houses that had lived in my memory for decades, and reconnect with a part of my life that had always felt unfinished.

I didn’t expect to come home with a new mission.

Now, instead of wondering, I’m writing emails.

I’m contacting churches.

I’m searching old records.

I’m following every lead I can find.

One thing I’ve learned while researching my family history is that memories disappear much faster than we think.

People pass away.

Documents get misplaced.

Entire stories survive only because one person happened to remember them long enough to tell someone else.

Then one day, you realize you’re trying to reconstruct your own family’s history from scattered pieces that no one thought to preserve.

Fortunately, I know a little more than I did a few weeks ago.

I know my great-grandparents lived on family land in rural Jamaica.

I know there may be a family burial ground somewhere on that property.

And I know there’s a chance my grandmother is buried there.

Maybe she is.

Maybe she isn’t.

I don’t know yet.

That’s the frustrating part.

Every email I send feels like buying another lottery ticket.

Most of them may lead nowhere.

But one of them might reach the person who says,

“Yes… I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

Until then, I’ll keep asking.

Finding a grave isn’t really about locating a piece of land.

It’s about making sure someone isn’t forgotten.

My grandmother spent her life raising children, building a home, and creating the family I came from.

She deserves more than becoming a mystery.

So I’ll keep looking.

Because some people deserve to be found.