The Old Cemetary

There is an old cemetery that I pass by on my way down the dirt road. I never really thought much about it, until one day I noticed a fresh bundle of flowers on one of the gravesites. I decided to go in and take a look. I almost felt as if I was trespassing into someone's soul, as I knew no one in this final resting place. I made my way up the lane to the headstone and read the name and date out loud to myself. The name was Etta Mae Richards b.1829 d.1849. I couldn't believe it, the poor girl was only twenty years old. Below it said loving daughter, and loving sister. It also said that the girl died from cholera. Hmm, cholera, I guess that was a big thing back then. Then I start looking at other dates and everyone buried there has died young and of either cholera or pnuemonia or childbirth, I say a silent prayer as I walk up and down each path and read the names, after awhile I realize that I am crying, crying for all of the people who are here and crying for all of the reasons that they are here. I try to leave but something keeps pulling me back and not letting me find my way to the entrance. It is like they all have something to say to me, without saying anything at all. Just by reading a few lines on their stones I seem to know them, like the name a birthdate, a deathdate, and a reason. After some more walking and  reading, I find myself singing happy birthday to the ones who have a birthday today. I head for the entrance and start passing by the gate on my way home and I tell myself that I am going to make it a point to come here everyday and visit these people, my new friends who do not sit in judgement on me and listen to what  I have to say. I get home and take a shower and try to go to sleep and find I cannot, so I go for a walk and find myself back in that cemetery talking to those people again......carrying on a onesided conversation, as they cannot speak back. I tell myself that one might think it weird to see someone sitting in an old cemetary on a stone bench talking to seemingly themselves. I finally drag myself home with all of these names floating in my head and I fall asleep with a promise that I will try to do something for those people, or their families. The cemetary is not well kept anymore and the lanes are not big enough for motorized vehicles so foot traffic is the only thing allowed in. The fence around it is a old wrought iron fence in bad need of repair. The old church has long been abandoned and boarded up by the previous tenants. Some of the headstones are crumbling and some are just wooden stakes. The next day I find myself at the local library looking up names of some of these people, it seems that all of their families are long gone or they do not claim them anymore, but my mind automatically goes to the fresh bundle of flowers on the young girls grave. I tell myself that I need to camp out and see who is putting those on there. Later that night as I am camped out behind the tree I see someone with a fresh bouquet of flowers for the young girls grave again, I try to watch closely so I can see who it is............I realize it is me.