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Walking through the gate into the village’s graveyard to visit ancestor’s row, I couldn’t help notice an upbeat vibrancy within the graveyard. Circular images of black and white faces arranged on each tombstone, which were mostly all at height level, seemed to be designed to greet every passerby. I wonder what they thought of me as I strutted down their windy path? I look like them, but I sure don’t feel like them. I was the American cousin after all, my air was different. “ The face of a Romanian, but the breath of a foreigner” the local butcher always said. The lack of stillness in the graveyard made it feel as if an unwritten moral rule of respect for the dead was being betrayed. My grandparents and their siblings weaved through the tombstones effortlessly, carrying their picnic baskets and flowers. Almost like a slow waltz, I slowed down my pace to gauge the tableau of stones, trees, and bushes when my eye reacted as if it had caught something. At the corner of the tombstone was a shadow that looked as though it didn’t belong. The ear farthest from my gaze heard little feet and youthful, muted giggles. I turned. Like woodland nymphs, I saw children gently frolicking in the graveyard jumping between tombs stones, playing hide-and-go-seek. These unorganized tombstones weren’t arranged for games, but I suppose they did provide a perfect collage of hiding spots. Looking up, I saw a young girl eating berries from a bush in front of a grave, arms behind her body as if she was bathing in the spirit’s essence. Suddenly remembering, in my hand I held a bag of Colliva, best described as death’s dessert, which was food we only ate when death was the subject. I began walking, double timing my pace to catch up to my elderly family. Their picnic was almost set up when I got there. As if routinely – my grandpa placed his fingers between his teeth, whistled, and softly whispered to us those: “poor children”. My grandmother’s sister looked at me very matter-of-factly :“ Of course. Here, the graveyard is better than being at home– probably not as tidy, but much friendlier, comfortingly open, and busier.” Staring at me, stare at her, she continued. “We did it too growing up. The tombstones were covered with pictures of loved ones so it felt like I was playing and my grandma was watching …. chaperoning us. I think that’s why our parent’s didn’t mind us playing in the graveyard, we weren’t exactly unsupervised.” Unveiling the contents of my plastic bag, the little children’s feet moved faster. The sight of Colliva communicated a short, neat, and precise gesture inviting them over. Together, we sat down enjoying lunch and dessert on my ancestor’s row.