Carry On

Oct 27 2011

I jog on grass

on cinder paths

in manicured rows.

Granite stones, and marble

flashing past,

fresh cut flowers

that will not last.

How many years

to weather this rugged rock,

names and dates worn-off

to a smooth dull finish?

I sometimes stop

and trace a stone with my hand,

the cool surface

inscrutable words,

families, forgotten

ancestors lost.

I gather they frown

upon joggers

in this public place

full of private sorrows.

So I tread softly

and carry on.

In one far corner

where the ground drops off

into dense brush

a frugal creek

I come across smaller stones, set oddly closer.

Children do not die

nearly as often now.

But back then families were large

and seemed more accepting of death,

early ends, almost expected.

I take my time, and read their ages,

sentimental inscriptions

cherubic angels.

A small cemetery

within a large graveyard,

within a middling city

that carries on.

And where I jog,

until I go to my rest, as well.

I do not mean

to be disrespectful.

I believe I honour the dead

with effort, and sweat

a life well-lived.

And think of the children

loved, and missed.

I no longer jog. And I only jogged there a couple of times, at most. But I still remember the poignancy of coming upon those small stones, in an overgrown corner, set slightly off. I love exploring old cemeteries, deciphering the old headstones. As for me, I’d rather be thrown into a cardboard box and buried in the forest, at the foot of a tree. No grave marker necessary.