One of my favorite cemeteries, the Homewood Cemetery. Henry and I used to go for walks here together regularly, but then as he continued to age, his endurance slackened and I would end up going alone. This is the only cemetery I walk in that has never, on some occasion, made my body shake with that biting sensation that someone’s behind me, something’s watching me, bodies are rising from the earth. Maybe because there’re always people at this one, groundsmen and mourners and visitors fulfilling obligations.
The mausoleum is terrifying though, I take it back. I’ve peed in the bathroom a few times and sometimes the idea of running out with urine streaming down my thighs seems like the better alternative to taking the extra step to wipe. I just get caught up with that Go! Go! Go! Run for your life! subconscious warning, like I’m watching myself in a horror movie. Never go in the mausoleum to piss, you idiot!
This photo makes me think of spring, like I want to put on a floppy hat and lay out on one of the graves. But then I remember that when I took this photo, it was below twenty degrees and I forgot to bring gloves; within ten minutes of exiting the car, my fingers were so cold that it looked like ten hot dogs were dripping from my hands, so I guess instead of picnics and floppy hats, I was probably thinking about parkas and bonfires, as in roasting my fingers in one.
Now just envision someone crouching next to a tombstone, face all hidden behind a giraffe mask. April 12 and 13, baby.