Not far from my house, there lies a small, awkwardly placed
plot of land set aside as a local graveyard. We have never stopped there and
all my information comes from quick glimpses out the car window; but I have had
enough of those glimpses to get a good idea of what it is like.
The yard is serene and beautiful, not at all like the
stereotype seem to suggest. Sometimes the sun comes to play among its ancient
trees and scattered flowers, and causes them to almost glow. A carpet of yellow-green
grass creeps about, seeking to overtake but always held back by the power of
weed whackers and trimmers.
The graves themselves are old, so very old, often to the
point of being unreadable. Most have withstood the test of time but a few bear
clear traces of their trials. Some have split, becoming not one stone but many;
others are simply cracked and damaged, the tendrils of age spreading across
their surfaces. Many are encumbered with vast colonies of lichen, disfiguring
names and obscuring details.
These monuments to human life range from grand memorials to mere
bricks in the earth; some inscribed with epitaphs of love, others not marked at
all. The largest and most prominent bears the name “Sophronia” and “Mother”,
the only one readable from the road.
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