Cemeteries are peculiar places. I’m not sure what is more heartbreaking; tombstones in a steady state of disrepair, the crumbled facades of lives no longer celebrated and commemorated, seemingly void of care. Or maybe it’s the newly minted gravestones, a shining shrine to a newly lost loved ones, or those older final resting places, still tended to with heartbreaking devotion, a sure sign that the devastation of loss is never to be healed. Whatever the case, the eerie blanket of eternal slumber is apparent, and weighs heavily on you as you descend towards your chosen crypt.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gentle Autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush.
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there;
I did not die. (ANON)