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Poem
The cemetery is not silent.
It hums—soft and steady—
like a lullaby remembered
just before sleep.

This is not a place of endings,
but of quiet continuance.
Here, the earth does not mourn—
it holds.
It listens.
It welcomes.

Beneath the moss and carved stone,
beneath the careful flowers and fading names,
a family has gathered—
not bound by blood,
but by something far more enduring:
the simple truth
that no one leaves
forever.

They are not ghosts.
They do not haunt.
They stay.
In laughter that echoes
between leaves,
in the hush that falls
before the first snow,
in the way your name lingers
on the air
when no one else is there.

They gather in invisible rooms
just beside the living,
close enough to reach—
if not to touch.
A gardener still tends her roses.
A father still hums
as sunlight slants golden across the garden wall.
A child still plays
in the rustle of autumn leaves.

They remember us.
Not as statues,
not as names etched in stone—
but as we are:
messy, marvellous,
still learning.
And they cheer us on
with a patience
the living rarely understand.

At night, they light invisible lanterns,
and their joy spills into our dreams.
They gather under imagined skies,
telling their stories—
and now, ours—
folding our names
into their conversations
like old friends
preparing a place
at the table.

They do not ask for tears,
though they understand them.
They’ve cried too.
They’ve loved too deeply
to ask you not to break
a little.

But they want you to know—
they are happy.
Not gone.
Not trapped.
But finally, wholly free.

They walk beside us,
though we may not see them.
Their hands hover near ours
in moments of stillness.
Their voices echo
in the thoughts we trust most.
And when you laugh
without knowing why,
when peace settles
over your chest like a warm blanket,
know this:

Someone you loved
was thinking of you.
Still is.
Always will.

This is the secret
the cemetery keeps—
not sorrow,
but sanctuary.
Not farewell,
but wait for me.

And when the time comes,
as it must,
you’ll find them not asleep,
but waiting—
smiling,
arms outstretched,
your seat beside the fire
still warm.
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