Young Writers Project: Graveyards Are For The Living

This is a graveyard,

I think to myself

as I walk into a clearing

in the forest.

The little houses are made from the forest,

names, beginnings, and ends label each.

1972 is falling. 2012 is not.

Birkenstocks and a bicycle hang from the trees

and a father behind me says to his child,

“This is where they remember people who have passed away,”

and the child is scared.

“Don't be scared; it's beautiful.”

This is a graveyard,

I think to myself

as I walk into a clearing

nestled in the tall, skinny trees, clacking in the cool wind.

This is a graveyard,

the happiest graveyard.

It's beautiful.