That smell. I will forever be familiar with that smell. The smell of grass in the morning. Freshly cut grass. The dew, dripping ever so slowly over blades of grass in the morning light. The sunrise, blooming over the hill, over those precariously placed marble stones. Crosses. Statues. Faces. Empty faces. Wearing thin over the glare of the sunlight. I glare at all the faces glaring back at me. Rain arrives. Drops from all the tears. The angels tears. Children. The smell of dirt, freshly dug up, heaps of Earth, mounds of brown particles destroyed, separated from their usual calm pattern. That smell. Freshly cut wood, giving the area a sort of ironically warm glow. That that of life itself, standing for life. Logs. Stacked in meticulous little piles. Birch and Oak standing tall in the morning light. Their shadows casting an eerie shade onto the already morbid atmosphere. A breeze blows by, dim, however noticeably enough, for all the flowers move like they are dancing in the breath made by the summer sky. Flowers. Hundreds of flowers placed against the marble stones. Roses and Lilies. The brilliant colors contrast and conflict with the location they are set in. Such beautiful things should not be placed upon this area of land. Bodies I know. Bodies of those I love buried deep beneath the surface of these stones. The presence of a greater power is almost tangible. The powerful pull towards these lifeless bodies is unimaginable.

I wake. By the morning light I wake. It’s only 5 o’ clock A.M but I know I have a job to do. I finish printing my ad for the local newspaper. A deal on two grave sites. Two plots. For two more lifeless bodies. I am alone. With only these bodies buried feet upon feet beneath me to keep me company. Hah! What company is that? Names upon names etched in contact with that abominable ashen stone. How synthetic to be left only as a name. A number in the community. A single word. Forgotten.

Mausoleums standing tall. heavy concrete and sealed doors. Sealed hearts. Sealed memories. I reminisce about the families. Who are those people in the tombs? My eyes fall upon the worst sight of all. The sight I avoid going, but know deep down is most precious:The Children’s Graveyard. A ray of sunlight beams down upon the resplendent statue of Mother Mary. Her hands outstretched, she calls out to the sky, with a silent whisper. Beckoning for protection. The tiniest of souls. Pneumonia. Disease. Abuse that took these angelic gifts away, and I can not bear to look any longer. I turn away.

Heading back to my room, I spot a car driving in through the gates. The giant gates beckoning visitors. Lost loved ones. Pranksters. Oh how I despise those pranksters. Disrespect. Have they no morals? Have they no morals? Have they no parents? No, for if they did I would know about the loss. Would have witnessed the loss. Would have buried their life away. I see some blue birds fly by over the skylight. Their little hearts beating ever so quietly. Looking down upon the cemetery with knowing eyes. They fly away to find a happy medium. To find solace away from the all to familiar reflection of marble. The reflection which touches me, keeps a hold on me, and I know I will never find an escape.