Slow Walk Through The Graveyard

Through the dirty window of my memory, I remember the day in gray, rain pouring. The sun was up there somewhere, doing his best to break through. No luck, however, as the clouds were huddled close, their seams fastened in mist, cinching the shades of cover together. Some areas of the indignant sky were darker than others; some were only murky, while others were dark blue. The clouds, now one, move in a unit across the sky, a powerhouse infecting my recall. The dark area is where the pressure increases. That is where my nostalgia resides, in the darker area of that cloud. All the things I know I should let go of are the things I remember most and, worst of all, those I yearn for, too.

Like a slow walk through the graveyard, I notice all the headstones. All of the markers are in different sizes, with different dates, all in different conditions. Each stone a separate memory, all of them dead and common denominated. There's not a soul in this burial ground save mine. Trawling the bends, plucking dried petals from the brittle rose bush, I keep an eye on that dark blue sky. There are no leaves as the trees perished along with the ground cover, giving new death to tumbleweeds and hollowed stumps. Like the dust of a former self, I blow away inside the wind. Naturally separating, parts of myself carried like pollen out across the field of headstones. Maybe I can plant here? I can live here, inside my head, watching the time pass outside of it.

Through the dirty window of my memory, I dig fresh graves, space expanding in the cloud—a new batch of memories, dead and buried. New mausoleums erected at a moment's notice, standing tall, spotless against the soot. I've been lowering caskets, smoking anxiety cigarettes, unprepared to bid farewell. I suppose that's how memories die, tied up and caught between another.

We all have a graveyard; it lives in the cloud of your sky. Nostalgia is the rain in the downpour of failure, and hindsight is your only clear eye.