Tuesday, June 28, 2016


Quietude and the trees and knolls are knowing, relaxed. There is in this one no little house, shed with tools for the groundskeeper, or office to inquire into. These and other must be located somewhere else. A small sign that says the name- that is all that meets the front. The path is gravel, and the place is not large. Picture if you will a giant thread, - a skipping rope, cord, or craft or garden twine dropped unceremoniously down upon and about ten or twelve small summits green, and you have the roadway. It goes in this turn or that, winding sometimes in or across itself with no logic. No logic with to travel among the dead. Maybe it is fitting. Yet, there is a certain rationale among the tombstones and especially for the flowers and trees. They all sit in a way that allows the others to have the right space, air, earth, shade and or sun. 

There is a lady made of rock, and she waits near the end. Her gaze is solemn and slightly
downcast. Perhaps in her own right she is mourning and blessing the area, the departed, the whole environs physical and metaphysical. Yet, - this is easy to say. Maybe she does more. Maybe the still woman remembers the dead. Yes, - she is thinking about them. Robinson, Munroe, Smith, and Faraday. McGrath, Williamson, Foster, and the others. Going through their lives like a movie in her mind, - she sees people and places, churches and schools, she knows rivers and estuaries, quays, brooks, hillsides, factories and towns. `Still waters run deep’ and this one with her silent watchfulness and remembrance, is stiller than even the dead. Up the way is a bench, - flowers set upon it. If you look closely across the stone on the summits as you walk or drive through the cord, - you will know talismans and trinkets, little cards and photographs, - sometimes actual paper with words scribbled. But whatever say- the still lady has in her own way read them and knows of and about them. And whatever form they announce themselves in, from the flower to the necklace and all in-between, - they are all notes for the dead.


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