A girl stands at the gate and inhales her sweet annihilation. The new fall September air chills her cheeks faced aloft to the estival sky and weaves through the loose threads of her gloved covered hands. Her face somber, she watches the two before her advance into the prodigious cascading fields of green shaded grass, mowed to perfection around hundreds of speckled stones belonging to all from younker to elderly, lined with undressed swaying trees to box it all within. She stepped onto the end of human's physical life's timeline—the palette for those in their endless slumber; polyandrium. Carefree—albeit heavy, layered air consumes her simultaneously as she sits inferior to the markers, an air filled with exhaustion, sprinkled with tranquil. Each burst she smells this fresh air and newly exposed earth. Superior to the grass she spotted a marker like no other, an exorbitant statue of Christ himself established in the middle of it all. Her eyes look ventral spotting a single yellow flower, bringing neither beauty nor respect to one grave but marking only an in-between. This place be only a glistening garden for the past, blaring ignorance to new eyes which see each grave the cover to a mystery book full of blank pages, never beholding the story to a name and hyphenated dates. Each story set into lazed rows spaced accordantly to its contents. Those rows and rows make life look so simple and meaningless, for in the end we all end up the same. As a pile of dirt, a stone, a name and two dates—relying on only living family and friends to keep our memories heard. Family and friends who after time passes do not even bother to bring flowers or a rock. Family and friends who eventually end up as the same thing, in the same place. Even she, will one day add her unheard story.