twilight

Whatever will I do if I don't live near a cemetary in my next life? All those lonely bodies, all needing a kind word, someone to read their names. Cracked stones, fallen markers, granite logs. Handfuls of pine needles. We leave our dead all over the place now. Cemetaries can smell like summer camp, mulchy in the warm air, the crickets whirring. Why hold your breath when you can laugh?