|analytical Q||May-Aug 2000||Sept-Dec 2000||Contact||Discussion|
PEACE IN THE CEMETERY
Yesterday, despite cloudy skies and look of rain, I ventured out on my mountain bike, to the cemetery nearby.
For peace and space, the cemetery is better than the park. Few visit the cemetery. But the spirit of the dead lurks. Long time ago, I had a date who took me to a cemetery at night. I suppose, he naively hoped that I would hold his hand out of fear. Since then, I've come to enjoy the tranquility and eeriness of tombstone city.
On the outer edges, the older tombstones lay. No adornment of flowers, no fresh plants. These were older than the rest by at least fifty years. Some writings had disappeared into the stone. I wondered if these were the forgotten or that they had merely run out of survivors.
In the middle, lay the recent dead. They were popular, for they were visited every week. Fresh flowers. Living people paid their respects.
When I die, I don't want to be buried like my grandfather whose grave is large enough to fit a household. Distant relatives bring plastic flowers that look real from afar. You cannot deceive the dead. No, I don't want to be remembered for being forgotten.