In Memoriam, L23
To most that haven’t lived there it is a cesspit, a broken, rough, rundown sort of a place. I would stare at the ruined buildings from an old war and think, are they the reason my parents left? There are graves in the rough, rundown city that mean something to us, and every now and then we would drive to the graves in the broken city. Seemed like hours spent in daddy’s car to get to what looked like a forgotten patch off the high street in the district of Crosby. St. Luke’s Church Cemetary, L23. And flowers were brought as my sister and I skipped in matching mary-janes, holding hands. We would glide to the back wall and find them, lying there, waiting for someone to remember. Minutes were spent cleaning and maintaining, and I would read and read and read. I would follow the names, most had two, then tried to find the oldest date, or the youngest death. But mostly I re-read their names and their years on the one that was ours. They left behind a son and five daughters, grandchildren, and siblings. Only two of the daughters remain in the city, the rest left, like us. In the end we moved too far away to stop by those graves that mean something to us, and I would like to think the living that remain still visit, as we who are not can no longer bring flowers.
