Sometimes I visit cemeteries

Sometimes I visit cemeteries.

Sometimes I walk through them, grass and headstones stretching as far as the eye can see.

Sometimes I count one row and try to guess the number of people I’m visiting.

Sometimes I read the faded names of those come to pass and calculate how old they were when they did. Sometimes I stand right in front of their stone, knowing I’m standing directly six feet above them. Sometimes I say hi.

Sometimes I have a conversation with the ghosts I can feel around me, wondering when the last time they had a visitor was.

Sometimes I just let the silence sink in, even though sometimes I hear birds chirping or cars driving; a reminder of life still keeping on.

But where I am, is quiet. The people I’m visiting are quiet except for in my head.

Sometimes I imagine what kind of life had been lived, and I imagine things that might have happened to that person and I realize that in the end, none of it mattered.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that you didn’t get the perfect GPA you wanted, or that you didn’t fold the laundry immediately after the drier finished.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that you were late for work that one time or that you keep too much clutter in your house.

In the end, it doesn’t matter that someone cut you off in traffic, or that you never had time to learn to quilt.

None of that matters when you’re sleeping under a grass blanket watching the stars at night.

What matters is the impression you left on the world and the people you shared your time with.

What matters is that you did your best and you had fun doing it without hurting anyone else.

What matters is that you lived with love in your heart and that people out there felt it.

What matters is that you lived and laughed and learned and loved.

Sometimes I think of all this and I feel the tension in my muscles relax, and my mind calm as the pressure of everyday living is relieved.

Sometimes I visit cemeteries, and I remember how to live.



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