They came,
seeking a new life
for themselves,
for their children.

Hoping
for something better.
Not knowing
they would be the first
cheeseheads.

I stood,
having passed the old cemetery
many times,
at last,
at their graves,
and wept.

A surreal
central Wisconsin
sunset moment,
a circle completed,
their names on headstones,
my face on photos
to show I was there.

I wept more,
blessed them
for their vision,
cleaned off their markers,
scrubbed their names:
“John”. “Father”.
“Victoria”. “Mother.”

They were born and died
centuries ago,
but their dreams
and hopes
are alive,
still,
in me,
on a rural Wisconsin hill.

Do they know
how much we,
seven generations
or more,
appreciate
and thank
them?

St. Killian Old Irish Cemetery,
Highway 83 east of Hartford.
I found them at last.
“Danke sehr, Victoria and John Kuntz.
Ya done good.”