I don’t know how they fell or how they lived
But I can’t help noticing they are there.
I wonder, as I contemplate the markers
That denote where they now reside,
What they lived like, what they looked like,
And who they loved.
They publicly declare that they are dead
But hint at how they lived by their markers.
Some small, having moved from day to day unremarkable,
Some large, for to live life bold was them.
Some markers made larger by family or friend
As that is what they embodied to others.
I ask myself about their stories, the secrets,
The lies and the truths that are buried with them.
They couldn’t take it with them, or did they, prone
In their burial clothes, me not knowing what’s in the pockets.
The sun and clouds change each day, but each sun and set
Is the same for them in their sealed encasement.
Loved ones that don’t visit, the lonely child still lonely
Hoping for a mother that never comes, her soul still crying.
A son missing the father he sees from under the ground
But can’t touch to dry his tears and tell him to go on.
A cousin who misses his hero, the only one that told him
He belonged when he himself never thought he did.
Men, with beards and long nails who never had them,
Women, still dressed in their Sunday finest,
Never needing to change.
Rich and poor, they all ended up in the same piece of ground
Never knowing each other but knowing now that
In the end, there is nothing but life, and death.
The light turns green and as I pull away
The stones whisper to me that there is more,
But to hear I’ll have to come back this way.
They will still be here waiting for me to think on them
As they waste the time and themselves away,
Hoping for a remembrance, or just a visit,
From someone.
