There is a secret cemetery in my neighborhood. It’s not actually secret, but the first time I accidentally found it, it seemed like it was. I was running randomly in the dark, listening to a podcast about murderers, trying to forget I was running. The garbage alley I was traveling through ended and I was suddenly standing among graves.
When approached from the logical direction, otherwise known as the street, the cemetery seems less secret, but still incongruent with the suburb that swallowed it.
I like to come and wander through these placeholders that have kept this spot all this time for the people who used to be here. I like to imagine what the stories are that lead to the markers that remain.
Even these things lose thier ground in the end.
Edna was six.