JAKE ROBBINS
A walk through Grove Street Cemetary
I walk into the Grove Street cemetery. The evergreen spruce mocks its deciduous kinsman as leaves, red with the blood of autumn, drop from the branches of the Hawthorn trees, falling delicately to the ground. When the gilded October sunlight filters through the leaves, the hoary headstones and statues of venerable saints and cuneiforms take on a different intensity; the colors sharpen, breathing life back into the dilapidated mementos. I am searching for epigraphs to translate for my Latin class, when I am faced with something I didn’t intend to find for the epigraphy project. In a place that exists because people die, I found immeasurable amounts of life.
October 31, 2024
