I decided to do something new: write a short vignette about the image below, similar in style to Erin Morgenstern’s flax-golden tales (I love them!). The difference? The shorter vignette fits into a larger story, which I will continue to write until the characters tell me I’m done.
Feedback always appreciated.
Father notices it before I do: the grooming of the cemetery.
“Someone takes care of this place,” he says. “Someone still treats it with reverence and respect. There’s time spent here.”
I don’t know why it matters. It seems such a silly thing, to honor the dead this way. Back home, we buried without pretense. Few words were spoken, and no markers were made. Earth reclaimed them: that was the purpose of funerals and burial grounds.
I did catch a few of the older members of our settlement look longingly at the old cemetery, overgrown with weeds and disregard.
“We need to leave, Grey,” Father says. There is an urgency to his voice, along with something else I have not heard in a long time: fear.
We turn to leave and a woman steps out from behind a tree.
“Please stay,” she says. Father grabs my arm and together we freeze, unsure of which direction to head.