dead end

This is the last post about our trip.  Across the street from the building where the studio is is an old graveyard.  After the end of the last day, we all went over and meandered through.  It had been neglected and overgrown until a few years ago (I seem to remember one of our hosts saying) but now it is kept neat and tidy.  The graves go back to the 1700s.  I like walking around in old graveyards.  I like looking at the markers and wondering about the people.  Small tragedies and long lives reveal themselves.  Like the stone with (name) son of (name) son of (name), three generations.  Or the stone with the name of an infant that said ‘their only son’ surrounded by the stones of daughters who lived long lives.  Or the father, mother, and children that seemingly died together.  Or the little soul that didn’t even live long enough to get a name.

Modern graveyards hold no interest for me with their metal or marble plaques on the ground, a single monument with the family surname.

The old markers hold mystery, love, longing.

They lean and sink.

They break as time slowly dissolves all traces of stone and bone until all is returned to the womb of the Mother.