The cemetery I go to exists outside of time. It’s some sort of a time vacuum. I can’t tell if five minutes or five hours have gone by. I sit there on the ground by my father’s grave. There’s a funeral behind me. The people come, they go. A bird sings. Some other people come to visit a grave. A horse whinnies across the street. I stand. I walk around the grave. I think I’m leaving.  I think I’m leaving.

Then time really losing meaning. The thought of leaving throws me into an altered state. I can’t seem to move. It seems to go on for a very long time, but again, it could just be a minute. Strange thoughts happen. Can my dad hear the birds singing if he’s so deep in the ground? Oh right, that not him anymore, he’s dead. But I want him to be able to hear the birds.

And then somehow I am at the ritual hand-washing station. Somehow I moved. I don’t really remember it happening, except I remember some of the other gravestones.

Maybe I’m still there, just imagining that I’m home now writing this. Who knows. Some part of me never leaves the cemetery.


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