The cemetery was laid out in

the 1850s. The headstones are of

the differing styles fashionable over

the many years of its operation,

with paved pathways meandering

their narrow course along

the top of the hill, old trees

crowding the pathways and

the gravesites, a mausoleum

here and there, and open

grassy slopes, attractive

at either side.

In paying our respects

to those beloved and now gone,

it is not uncommon to see

a deer or two passing silently

through the gray trees and the graves,

offering a broader sense of place

to this world apart.

But not until the bright, chilly

afternoon of Easter Sunday

did I see them gathered together,

surprisingly close to the gate

and to the city beyond,

a dozen, perhaps more, alert

in a “keeping an eye on the world” way,

but in any deeper sense, undisturbed.

Then I understood. They live here.

There is nowhere else for them to go,

and nowhere else they should be.