Graveyard

Most people only visit graveyards to pay their respects to a distant relative, or to leave a bouquet of flowers by the carved stone representing their passed loved ones. But me? I go to visit the strangers. The ones I would have never gotten to meet. Breathed the air of decades ago, saw a younger sun rise. Is that creepy? Maybe. But I find graveyards to be oddly comforting.
To the cemetery I went when I broke up with my boyfriend of 4 months. He was the first and only boy I ever dated. I left a note on his car windshield, and then wandered among the headstones taking photos of the autumn leaves while he texted me angrily, heartbroken. I was numb. Cold. Like the stones at my feet. How many of these faceless lives were left heartbroken at the final turn of their life clock?
To the cemetery I went with my friend right before our big audition in Nashville. I drove the rented car down a road that draped like an eager thread thrown from its spool, the first time I ever drove a red car. We adventured through a barren town square before the call of the graveyard on the hill grew too great to ignore. Those whispers of bones fading to vapors called me. Their last placeholders spread on the ground like a large dinner feast where name cards are greetings they will never make to one another. Where strangers lie in Mother Nature's bed like sweet angels tucked in with expensive silk-lined boxes.
To the cemetery I went down a well beaten road to a small graveyard where some dirt still lay fresh among the sunken headstones, the ones pushed askew by some unearthly force. After a couple decades, no one brushes the dirt off the names. Their names grow shallow and worn, like a pebble doing battle at the coast, quiet but incredibly strong.
After a couple decades, people stop visiting. The paths are overgrown. Moss spreads its fuzzy fingers.
Most people are afraid of cemeteries. I get that. They always give me the heebie-jeebies, but I read their deathdates as one final eulogy, speak their name and imagine how it sounded coming off the lips of their long gone lovers.
Abandoned graveyards. A yard full of graves. Of families. Of coworkers. Of cultures. Of humankind. Forever in a slumber. But those mounds were once people. Like you. Like me. Not so scary after all.