Cemetery
Up a winding road, past houses that’ve been alive far longer than I have, there’s a wrought iron mouth. I’ve been up this road several times but I still couldn’t tell you how to get there. Perhaps I should have paid more attention. Perhaps some part of me never wanted to know how to get there. It feels as if there should be wrought iron gates attached to this gaping mouth, but there aren’t, so the car glides inside. Beyond the gate-less mouth the road is smooth for only a few blinks of the eye and then it turns to dust. It narrows and winds and splits in different directions and no matter what vehicle you’re in, you can feel every dip and bump and rock beneath the tires. When I come, I come in the summer, when towering rhododendron bushes bursting with pink flowers tower above the SUV. The trees and bushes and flowers may die each year, but at least they have the privilege of springing back to life. We come to another fork in the road. To the right is the future that I vehement