I miss graveyards.
I mean the lovely ones, with hills and big oak trees and ornate above-ground shrines and stone caskets.
I love pebble paths between sections where I can read names of the centuries gone: Ann, who died in 1853.
I miss the graveyards behind the church, in the middle of the old East Coast town, mistaken for a park.
I love cities that don’t hide their dead on the edge of town: old cities, churches that understood the wholeness, completion of both baptism and burial on the same plot of land.
It’s just that I’m a little homesick. For Syracuse? For Philadelphia? For San Francisco? I don’t know.
Don’t mind me, Austin. Really. I’m not trying to judge your depth based on where you bury your dead. Just consider this a lament from a girl who likes gravestones, who sometimes to needs to walk around them to remind herself that she will die too.