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And the cemetery was fresh and vivid green 
when we took our bikes down the paths of it -
past stones and trees and mausoleums and grass as far as we could see,
carefree on that muggy summer afternoon,
perspiration glistening on our arms and on our faces
as we sought to stay on the shady side of each well-traveled lane.

Instinctively we followed Dale, our older red-haired fun-loving brother,
turning here and there; it didn’t matter. We had no destination,
no gravesites of friends or relatives to visit. 
Sometimes we would spot an interesting tombstone,
jump off our bikes and take a closer look at it.
We were just kids, out of school for summer with no real obligations.
Our lives were a clean slate, not like the worn and broken headstones
we spotted sometimes on the cemetery’s edge, the older area’s grave stones
whose names were hard to read and dates went as far back as the 1800’s.
Those were emblems of an ancient past for us.
It was 1965! We were the modern generation and the future loomed
as large for us 
                        as those many squared city blocks the cemetery measured.

Flash forward two decades to 1984.  I was married with two small kids
and back in my hometown; things around me seeming so much smaller,
and the future loomed not quite so large ahead of me this time.
Most of my sisters were married but leading separate lives in different states.
We all had pressing obligations, so our reunion could not be a long one.
No longer were my sisters and I carefree, and we were not riding bikes.
We rode in cars that followed one another in a line.
           And the cemetery was cold and dismal grey on that December day
as we gathered around the unearthed sod,
staring, unbelieving,  into the giant hole that was to be the final resting place
for the brother whom we’d once followed so gleefully
                                                   along the shady paths of vivid green.


Written May 19, 2016 
for the "And The Cemetery Was" Poetry Contest Contest of Broken Wings
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