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Description
Rough 2:

The wind swirled around me, picking my hair up and temporarily blinding me. There was a small white sedan parked a ways away, its engine crackling to silence as it rested on the side of the narrow paved road. The cold keys in my pocket were as foreign to me as this place was. Up until that point I had no reason to give the ominous marble studded green hills a second glance.

Although the air outside the gates was balmy and fresh, inside, it was dark and cool, a phenomenon that follows to any cemetery. The dirt paths made a maze between the copious graves, far too many for this to be a reasonable resting place. Somehow I was the only one on this end, my peripheral vision caught sight of the drooping oaks, creating a canopy above my bench. How funny it was that this memorial bench, in honor of “Anthony Bociello 1906-1982” was mine. I sat there and stared, every time I visited, and watched the slow breezes play with the leafy trees with Mr. Bociello. I have no idea who Anthony Bociello was, but he shared my bench in the cool shadows, we both liked it there I think.

The tall religious statues loomed with kind, sorrowful eyes and an extended hand for any who needed divine support. They looked to me like place holders, or those tiny statues people bury in their yards to be sure that the house would sell. They seemed to be guarding the soul on their journey- a journey I didn’t happen to agree with, or believe in, but nevertheless, a journey to heaven. Cracked granite became a lovely home for giant spiders, a haven for their delicate webs, ready to break, just as willing as I was while I was here. Hollowness followed me around the manicured lawns; every sound echoing louder than I thought would have been possible.

Turning towards the small hills I wove around the ghosts in my thoughtful state. Not seeing the place in its sadness, but rather its charm. A sharp voice made me turn to my left, and about 30 yards down from the small rise where I stood, there was a picturesque scene I felt guilty for observing, and a young girl trotting back to join it. I was unconsciously taking place in their tragedy; a body in the distance. A family of five was gathered around a new grave, sobbing and whispering to one another, save for the child who had been called back. A young girl, not much older than four or five wore a princess dress of bright pink, most likely to pacify her, as opposed to forcing the child into an uncharacteristic black. She was sitting next to the headstone, ripping up the white and purple orchids her family had brought, completely unaware of the heartbreak that surrounded her young world. Her family ignored the fact that there was now a violent collection of purple and white confetti surrounding the grave, and I envied her ignorance, it struck me that children are simply adults plagued by innocence. Adults are the unlucky ones; they experience loss. They know what it’s like to love something so much, and see it vanish for no reason other than time.

It now find it funny, how had I considered this to be strictly my loss. My place. My experience. And yet, this family, who had really experienced a true loss, was more uncomfortable here. Not that I dug hanging out in cemeteries any more than the next person, but that was somewhere I felt like I could think, and know who I wanted to be. But there was one hitch in my master inspiration; nobody I knew had died…so made my being there totally out of place.

Wandering away from the heart-wrenching tableau I looked for the mausoleum. The mausoleum. Underline and bold it. The reason I was here again, probably in more trouble than the entire trip was worth. I thought about that statement, and disagreed with it; this was worth it. I just had to be the freak that needed to stare at dead bodies to feel better…and at that moment; I felt I could be back there very soon. The mausoleum was a huge stone filing cabinet, filled to the brim with bodies and ashes and wedding rings and who knows what else. A thousand other marble and granite headstones marked where the bodies lay, a battlefield six feet under. They all winked at me as I got lost in the intricate maze, just wanting to find the freaking mausoleum, so I could leave. Yeah, it was cool, but it was the last time I went to a cemetery on purpose, or just to think, and I think I knew that.

I finally found it. Ironically, I would stand in almost the same spot not four weeks later. For a funeral, the next time, as opposed to thought alone. Both times I swore at the massive place, thinking maybe it would help me feel less empty. Neither time did anything happen. The first, my words simply bounced off the stones, and the second, they resonated in my head, threatening to escape. It scared me. It still scares me; the fact that I visited the source of my torment, not afraid to stand and stare at the mysterious beauty that settled over the place. After that I was terrified to go back, and stand there. I tricked myself into thinking I could see my countless footprints. And the darkest spots, where I had stood and yelled, internally or externally at the massive wall.

Eventually I did go back though, after that funeral, after a few months…like, six. And that time, I walked in the snow. A dark spot trudging through the bright walks of sorrow. The trees still reached to the sky, only this time, they were blackened memories. I could commiserate. The statues still held out a helping hand, hoping maybe, that this time I would take it. I didn’t, just smiled and walked on, still adamant with my doubts of that entire world. The glitter of the virgin snow made the bright flowers and Christmas cards seem even more out of place, they seemed like plastic happiness. Put down to make a family feel better. I was a hypocrite though, because I held a rose in my hand, freezing closed in its budding form, it matched my raw flesh. I had this for a different reason; I wasn’t going to go decorate a grave. I just kind of stopped and bought it. It seemed fitting, to have the blood red next to the startling white, on top of the nondescript grey.

So I placed the rose at the base of the giant mausoleum and screamed.

Description
Rough 2:

The wind swirled around me, picking my hair up and temporarily blinding me. There was a small white sedan parked a ways away, its engine crackling to silence as it rested on the side of the narrow paved road. The cold keys in my pocket were as foreign to me as this place was. Up until that point I had no reason to give the ominous marble studded green hills a second glance.

Although the air outside the gates was balmy and fresh, inside, it was dark and cool, a phenomenon that follows to any cemetery. The dirt paths made a maze between the copious graves, far too many for this to be a reasonable resting place. Somehow I was the only one on this end, my peripheral vision caught sight of the drooping oaks, creating a canopy above my bench. How funny it was that this memorial bench, in honor of “Anthony Bociello 1906-1982” was mine. I sat there and stared, every time I visited, and watched the slow breezes play with the leafy trees with Mr. Bociello. I have no idea who Anthony Bociello was, but he shared my bench in the cool shadows, we both liked it there I think.

The tall religious statues loomed with kind, sorrowful eyes and an extended hand for any who needed divine support. They looked to me like place holders, or those tiny statues people bury in their yards to be sure that the house would sell. They seemed to be guarding the soul on their journey- a journey I didn’t happen to agree with, or believe in, but nevertheless, a journey to heaven. Cracked granite became a lovely home for giant spiders, a haven for their delicate webs, ready to break, just as willing as I was while I was here. Hollowness followed me around the manicured lawns; every sound echoing louder than I thought would have been possible.

Turning towards the small hills I wove around the ghosts in my thoughtful state. Not seeing the place in its sadness, but rather its charm. A sharp voice made me turn to my left, and about 30 yards down from the small rise where I stood, there was a picturesque scene I felt guilty for observing, and a young girl trotting back to join it. I was unconsciously taking place in their tragedy; a body in the distance. A family of five was gathered around a new grave, sobbing and whispering to one another, save for the child who had been called back. A young girl, not much older than four or five wore a princess dress of bright pink, most likely to pacify her, as opposed to forcing the child into an uncharacteristic black. She was sitting next to the headstone, ripping up the white and purple orchids her family had brought, completely unaware of the heartbreak that surrounded her young world. Her family ignored the fact that there was now a violent collection of purple and white confetti surrounding the grave, and I envied her ignorance, it struck me that children are simply adults plagued by innocence. Adults are the unlucky ones; they experience loss. They know what it’s like to love something so much, and see it vanish for no reason other than time.

It now find it funny, how had I considered this to be strictly my loss. My place. My experience. And yet, this family, who had really experienced a true loss, was more uncomfortable here. Not that I dug hanging out in cemeteries any more than the next person, but that was somewhere I felt like I could think, and know who I wanted to be. But there was one hitch in my master inspiration; nobody I knew had died…so made my being there totally out of place.

Wandering away from the heart-wrenching tableau I looked for the mausoleum. The mausoleum. Underline and bold it. The reason I was here again, probably in more trouble than the entire trip was worth. I thought about that statement, and disagreed with it; this was worth it. I just had to be the freak that needed to stare at dead bodies to feel better…and at that moment; I felt I could be back there very soon. The mausoleum was a huge stone filing cabinet, filled to the brim with bodies and ashes and wedding rings and who knows what else. A thousand other marble and granite headstones marked where the bodies lay, a battlefield six feet under. They all winked at me as I got lost in the intricate maze, just wanting to find the freaking mausoleum, so I could leave. Yeah, it was cool, but it was the last time I went to a cemetery on purpose, or just to think, and I think I knew that.

I finally found it. Ironically, I would stand in almost the same spot not four weeks later. For a funeral, the next time, as opposed to thought alone. Both times I swore at the massive place, thinking maybe it would help me feel less empty. Neither time did anything happen. The first, my words simply bounced off the stones, and the second, they resonated in my head, threatening to escape. It scared me. It still scares me; the fact that I visited the source of my torment, not afraid to stand and stare at the mysterious beauty that settled over the place. After that I was terrified to go back, and stand there. I tricked myself into thinking I could see my countless footprints. And the darkest spots, where I had stood and yelled, internally or externally at the massive wall.

Eventually I did go back though, after that funeral, after a few months…like, six. And that time, I walked in the snow. A dark spot trudging through the bright walks of sorrow. The trees still reached to the sky, only this time, they were blackened memories. I could commiserate. The statues still held out a helping hand, hoping maybe, that this time I would take it. I didn’t, just smiled and walked on, still adamant with my doubts of that entire world. The glitter of the virgin snow made the bright flowers and Christmas cards seem even more out of place, they seemed like plastic happiness. Put down to make a family feel better. I was a hypocrite though, because I held a rose in my hand, freezing closed in its budding form, it matched my raw flesh. I had this for a different reason; I wasn’t going to go decorate a grave. I just kind of stopped and bought it. It seemed fitting, to have the blood red next to the startling white, on top of the nondescript grey.

So I placed the rose at the base of the giant mausoleum and screamed.