The Statue

The Statue

Often I would go up to her and feel her cool, rough skin. I would look into her empty eyes sometimes and cry, smiling, tracing my fingers over the undying lily in her outstretched hand. She would protect me. I could feel her. It was something I couldn’t explain. Something I always felt there. My eyes would water and I’d lean over and kiss her hand, so overwhelmingly grateful that I had this place.

I used to walk in the cemetery all the time. The trees were my friends and when my happiness overflowed and burst from me, I would run through them, stopping to trail my fingers over a trunk here, a blade of grass there, sharing and pouring out joy, letting it seep from my fingertips into the sundrenched soil.

Sometimes, I’d go there when I couldn’t be anywhere. I’d rush past her, down the hill, and across the grass, throwing myself on the ground where the pine needles were, sobbing. Sometimes it was cold or raining. I’d shiver, shake, get wet.

Sometimes I’d walk, peaceful, comfortable, jotting things down in my notebook, nodding to her as I strolled along. I’d walk past her, curve left with the path, down the hill and across the grass to sit on the prickly ground, by the pine trees.

Sometimes I’d lay myself out right over the ground, smelling pine and earth. I’d press my face into the grass, dig my fingers into the dirt, trying to get closer. Then I’d think of worms and feel like throwing up, and I’d sit up and brush off the dirt and pine needles and go back up the hill to where she stood, and I’d sit by her instead, in the sunny part where the Vet monument was.

She was the heart of the cemetery, and it was a beautiful place. I would wander under the trees, crash through a woodsy part to get to the pond, or just walk around in the sunshine. I’d take off my shoes and walk, not making a sound, just being a part of this place. Quiet, whole, connected. Whatever I needed, I found there.