There is a gravesite I go to which is hidden. It sits in a copse of scrub oak, at the end of an unmarked road. There are only four graves: members of my family who died before cemeteries or electricity had come this far out. I go there to listen. To stand beside the brittle trees, beneath the rustling of their leaves. It sounds like the language of our people, the only one they knew. I did not get to know you, I say, but I remember you. Do not worry, they say, for we know you and will remember you too. The wind scatters leaves among the wildflowers where they are sleeping. I go home on an unmarked road. There is no death that separates us from those we love. Only time.
Quote: Steven Charleston