One of my favourite places near our house is a little graveyard up the hill behind our village. Yes, I know how odd that sounds. I don’t even have relatives there; I know nothing about the people buried in that small patch of ground except what is written on their monuments and of course that they used to live where I live and breathe the same air and somebody cared enough about them to put up a stone in their honour.
Some of the stones are heartbreaking, their numbers far too close together. Others are traditional, if you can call birth and marriage and family and death such a thing. Most are unreadable, worn down by time and overgrown with ivy.
I don’t read the stones, though. I walk past a few of them and sit on a wall. From the wall, I can look down on a panorama of the world where I live. The world where all the buried lives around me were lived as well.
From the wall, I see tiny cars hurrying down the same roads I hurry on, while right behind me rest those whose hurrying is done.
From the wall, I remember my place, and my size.
From the wall, I pray.
I sit on the wall between life and death I sit on the wall and pray I sit on the wall and talk to God I sit on the wall and say: The Maker of All has made me small The Maker of All has said The Maker of All will hold me up Oh Maker of All, do!