In my time I have taken to the habit of hanging out in graveyards. It's strange how the dead always seem more put together then the living.
All of their homes in neat little rows. And I have never once heard an argument between Frank Eaton and Josephine Ashwell about how Frank's spruce tree overshadows her plot.
No, the dead seem content. With the clean-cut grass and the birds for entertainment. As they flit around from stone to stone performing their unknown opera.
I wonder what it must feel like to be a new comer here. If I was a new resident would I be shy to all the old withered stones that told dates far before my own.
Or would I be proud of how clean and well-polished my rock was. Receiving gifts and flowers and visits from all these people who never came for them.
Or maybe I would look across at my neighbor Josephine and see how she out lives her husband, son, and daughter by many years.
Making me wonder how did she feel visiting all her family for so long when they were just stone and she, just a shadow.