As I meandered around the local cemetery with my dogs for our evening constitutional it struck me… it’s not the dead who haunt the living, but rather the living who haunt the dead.
This evening I saw a family of at least 4 generations at one grave. I saw a young boy cycling and smiling at the squirrels (he even paused to smile at me as I stumbled amongst the dead) before shouting in Polish (or some other language foreign to my ears) to his mother who was happily stepping amongst the gravestones collecting fir cones. I saw couples kissing on benches and people hurrying home in the wind, their coats pulled close.
The dead cannot be at rest whilst the living plague them with questions about the mundanaties of life. (I’m not actually sure if that’s a word, if it isn’t it should be!)
The living roam amongst the dead, tending graves; taking short cuts; selling drugs; walking dogs; talking to long dead or newly dead loved ones; sitting with lovers and kissing beneath autumn trees. We talk amongst ourselves, to the rotting bodies beneath the earth, to our dogs, to the birds and squirrels, to ourselves. We haunt the dead.