Cemetery Life

Cemeteries are for the living.

At first it seems rather odd,

Rolling green hills and concrete,

Trees and bricks and marble,

All used to hide the bones and decay.

This thing’s sole purpose

Is to give death a home.

Or is it?

Do you think the dude from Nazareth That said “no stone will be left on another”

As he walked by the town’s temple

Knew?

Did he know that someday

We would deconstruct those marble halls;

That scattered stones would pack a punch

Stronger than a building ever could.

All of these thoughts bubble up

As I meander and listen to the thing

That is supposed to be oh so quiet -

This community of rotting loved ones

(For all of them were loved by someone) -

My listening ears are overwhelmed by sound.

Birds chirping.

Squirrels climbing.

Children playing.

Gardeners raking.

Leaves rustling.

Bugs buzzing.

It’s all so very loud and alive.

And then there are the dead themselves,

Breaking through the silence and sounds,

With their very presence generating life -

Because what could be more alive than

A question,

Or a story,

Or a mystery?

Can the grief of burying your infant

Really be contained in such a small grave?

I think maybe we got that part wrong.

Perhaps babies should get the biggest plots

To hold the sorrow that goes with them.

And the number of spouses who lived long lives

Only to die within months of each other

Leads me to believe that maybe you can

Die of a broken heart.

And although I never will, I’d love to know:

Was it coincidence or by design

That the families with surnames

King and Housekeeper

Are buried side-by-side?

“Point taken,” I whisper to nobody,

Adding to the cacophony of noise.

No, I don’t care what anyone says.

I am absolutely certain.

Cemeteries are for the living,

Because cemeteries are very much

Alive.