SB LACROIX

On a warm summer afternoon I went for a walk to one of my favorite places, the cemetery. It’s a lovely place with beautiful old headstones, and where huge maple trees stand in rows down the center. In the summer the green leaves offer a canopy of shade, and the grass is a plush emerald carpet beneath my feet. In autumn the orange and yellow leaves gracefully fall from the trees, scattering around headstones, and adorning the paths that rustle as I walk.   

I find it very peaceful, after all the folks there are quiet. I often sit at the grave of a soul that passed a hundred years ago and wonder how they died. I visit the graves of children and infants, the poor little souls that died before ever really living. Some are like shrines with statues of angels or Mother Mary, toys and wind chimes, sun catchers and pin wheels. 

A cool breeze whispered past and a rumble of thunder followed it. After a brief surveying of the darkening sky, I headed home. Not long into the walk back, the heavens opened up and it poured. At first it felt sharp and cold, but once I got used to it, it was like being washed clean of the collective sorrow of life. There is something about being caught in the rain—especially a heavy down pour—that somehow frees your soul. 

I was soaking wet before I reached the hill that descends toward my house. The water was running down the side of the road in a little stream. It was enchanting, and I’m not sure what possessed me, but I jumped in it like a little kid would jump in a puddle. The people driving by looked at me sort of funny, as if I were crazy or something. I don’t know, but I think that pretty much goes without saying.