Great Grandma took her for walks and told her stories.

The cemetery was a peaceful place.

Crypts of the long gone lay looming as symbols of lives lived

“This is a part of life”,

Grandma would say.

There was never any sadness.


She is 96 now

and tells me that she has dreams of the cemetery;

dreams of grass reaching up out of the earthen beds

to touch and caress the shoes of passersby.

Dreams of the people that rest in wooden boxes in the ground

or behind iron doors.

White gloves on ladies’ hands

that now crumble to dust when disturbed.


“Dust to dust”,

she said as she looked dazedly to the ceiling,

“That is what they say, isn’t it?”