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.