I live by an old cemetery with a few sandstones amongst the trees, and some new marble ones at the back.
For a long time, I have been afraid that I or my child may be swallowed in our morbid days by this sight, by our fear of death.
But fear of death is only fear of the unknown and fear of change, it is no evil but what we make.
These graves are Death Happened, but also Lives Lived!
How many were short, or lain not to be regretted?
The stones, the words, the few flowers say: however long they were there, here lay people who mattered.
It shines in the darkness, by the shadow of the sun in the trees, by the light of the moon on the grass:
Death is a life lived to the end. These graves are lives loved.