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The rare southeast wind carries a faint smell of seaweed with it.

A pair of alert adult snow geese, along with two grey, full-sized young ones in tow, are pecking away in the graveyard.

Off to the side, a siksik is watching them while up on its hind legs.

And, once again, my father-in-law's grave marker is lying flat on the ground.

It's summer, and this is the third time the plain white wooden cross in the northwest corner lot has to be erected.

This time, extra-heavy rocks from the side of the road are used.

As I catch my breath and steady my heart beat from lugging the heavy rocks, I decide to check on who all are buried here. It's like a walk down memory lane.

People who were completely gone from my mind for years, suddenly come back in little mental vignettes.

There is old Qaviq, who, while in his 90s, delivered one of his carvings to my house in a wheelbarrow.

And, believe me when I tell you, it was big.

Then there is old Leo, who would occasionally send over a pot of boiled goose.

The only thing he would accept in exchange was a lemon meringue pie, which was his favourite qallunaat food.

Near by is his son, Larry, with whom I sat on the hamlet council.

Unfortunately, many of the crosses no longer have names on them or surely there would be a lot more memories.

Nevertheless, I continue to recognize many more names that I haven't thought of in years.

Like Don, who celebrated two birthdays in a row on Marble Island while watching the annual meteor showers during the early hours of Aug 11.

And, while on the topic of Marble Island, there's Big Philip's grave all decked out in smooth white pebbles from the island.

I never actually talked to him, except for that one time when he came out to Marble Island to rescue me after I was stranded there for more than a week.

All he ever said to me was "Here's a sandwich and there's coffee in the thermos," as he opened up the throttle of the outboard while bound for Rankin Inlet. Thank you Phillip!

Off to another side lies quiet Simionie - the first tenderfoot I ever invited into the Rankin Inlet Boy Scout Troop back in 1978 at the old rec hall.

With each row, old faces and thoughts come flooding back to me until I come to one that stops me in my tracks.

In the middle of the cemetery is a cross with a brass plate identifying Tagumiak, my father-in-law.

How could that be? We buried him on the outer edge of the graveyard, yet here he is, seven rows deep and almost in the centre of the field of crosses.

It was with a shocking realization that it slowly dawned on me just how many, many more people have been buried since he passed away. As I continue on my way to gather seaweed for the tide, which must be out by now - I think about whose grave I have been tending during the summer.

That and my own mortality.