It's where your heart goes, when you're done.
Hey guuuuuuuuuuuuuys.
I’d love some feedback, even though it’s not finished yet!
“Olivia Barton. 1823-1893” was the first tombstone you would see outside of the church doors. “She lived until she died” were the words inscribed, leaving the pessimists and optimists of the crowd to always have something to talk about. But I sat in between, in the aisle of social groups, with my glass is three-fourths full and I’ll probably waste one-fourth of it mindset, therefore leaving me to find that statement too simple to define the human experience while also believing that it sums it up perfectly.
“Robert” was the farthest one behind the church. That was all that was written on it, and most people forgot it because of that reason. But I would visit it every day. There is no way of finding out who this man was or when he lived, so I can’t possibly determine what his life must have been like. While I think this is sad, it also frees “Robert” from my imagination.
All we know is that the grave was here before the church.
“Jonathan Drace. 2009-2012” was the most recent one. He didn’t get to experience all of the beauty at sunrise sunset everywhere throughout all time frames and he didn’t have to live through every year that signs turn into question marks and people turn into blurs.
“He was too young to know.”
“Woodrow Moren. 1929-2000” was a dramatic man. “Alas!” was all it said and it was the same phrase that woke his neighbors on an every other day basis and that I hardly heard when I saw him fall in the street that I hurried down my driveway to get to thinking hurry get to him he needs help while not shouting a single word and kneeling down and realizing he was fading and his saddest eyes met my blue ones and I tried to cry but those eyes wouldn’t let me because of all the happiness they were feeling for once.
I suggested “Alas!” be put on the grave, and delivered the sentencing with a laugh and everyone gave their best sad chuckle while I knew I should have never followed suit.
He died on January first, at 12:02 AM. A new millennium must have been too much to handle and his time must have been too beautiful to keep under control.
“Elizabeth Mead. 1798-184” was a poet, not originally from this area, but not known where from.
“lay,
lay,
lay with me
once more.”
She had decided that she wanted this on there when her husband (“Val Mead. 1796-1850. The only poemElizabethdidn’t write.”) died in 1850 and was buried next to him. For those fourteen years she didn’t write any other poetry which was unfortunate since she wrote beautifully and beautiful because all of that was a poem in itself.
“Joyce Rivers. 1909-2009” was “Always in the Alley”. She spent all of her life in the middle of things and ended it that way by dying at 100 with her mother dying at 98 and aunt dying at 102. She sat in the middle of the row of seats that was in the middle row of all the seats that was the middle section of seats of the three sections. Born and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland, lived and died two blocks down from the church with her husband since ’32 and her kids since ’38 and ’40 and her grandkids since ’65, ’68, and ’72 and her great grandkids from many times after that, she remained in the middle seats of dinner tables, sofas, and movies theaters giving her the best view of all but the farthest from the outside of herself.
