my father’s workshop
smelled the same although
ten days had passed
since he’d won his
battle for death.
that familiar scent
which had permiated every… 399 more words
I sit in the three hundred year old cemetery and closed my eyes. The quiet seeping into my bones chilling, then warming me. Pocketed stones clatter together on headstones, while the only whispers heard are the ones that sing through the tears of the weeping willows. 100 more words
As a kid, I spent a lot of time in cemeteries.
Each summer, my mom would load my older sister and me into the car – along with two of my aunts and a picnic lunch of box drinks and bologna sandwiches – and we’d go “visit the family,” as they’d call it. 225 more words