When we were teenagers we used to walk to the grave yard. We sat on the ground in a semi circle and talked, or picked our way through headstones, admiring the old fashioned names, wistfully taking in the daintier stones that marked babies and small children—but it was never a frightening place.

The notion of a decomposing body scares me—but in a grave yard they’re neatly covered.  A place for everything, so to speak, and everything in it’s place.  I worry about corpses in rivers, in dumpsters or even basements and alleyways.  Places, basically, in which I am not already hopelessly aware of death.  But a graveyard isn’t so much death—it is the dead.  The long dead.  A place for quiet, for thinking and remembering—but not haunting.

I like to think they have something or nothing—that’s better to do than worry about me.


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