We brushed off stones covered in grass, and put rocks on the tombstone of a 20-year-old boy. Afterwards, we saw the heart-shaped grave of a fifteen-year-old girl with her picture attached. Her mother was buried next to her. We also saw the minute grave of an infant, marked only with the letter A on the top. Not to mention, a masoluem from 1892, with it’s door wide open, the wrought-iron bars letting us see inside. Few things have been more…queerly terrifying in my life. We stayed there a half an hour, and saw so many sites with just markers and dirt. I just kept thinking “zombie” as we stood by those sites, then reprimanding myself for such disrespect. There’s no point to this, but I think these people would’ve been happy we remembered them when the rest of the world has forgotten.
But, I’m just thinking of that boy and girl. I want to know their stories. I want to know them. I want to avoid an early grave.
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