Marathon

Well I remembered the pictures but not the outswide writing. My shoes were so comfortable this morning, but they didn't protect my feet from ants or walking. The concrete under my feet felt so good. Smooth to rough, lined and ridged, cool under trees, but warming to the sun that reflects off it.

Cemeteries make me think of walking on Sunday afternoons. I would leave the house, bored and wanting something more than there was. A typical teenager in that respect. I would slowly walk through the quiet town. No one about. Shops closed, churches emptied, a newsagents the only place open. Wait, across the road, a cafe open. I'll stop in after my ramble. Continuing on, I wonder through the park, little kids swing higher and shriek for Mummies and Daddies to watch. Benches cradle old people sitting to watch. I walk among the paths and head out the other side. A church sits between the park and a flower shop. An old stone wall, crumbling and covered with mosses is open and inviting. Old trees crowd the ground and the sky, darkening the daylight to a dusk. Tiny pathways meander through the graves no new flowers, those at rest here have been gone for many years. Not just a few, ten, or twenty. Some for a hundred years ormore. Are their families still in this town? No one visits the lonely graves except kids to desecrate a memory that is no more.

The graveyard is off limits now, too dangerous. The stones topple and fall. People may get hurt. Too much to restore. A shame we did not care for them earlier. So much history lies in this one piece of ground. Dates alone might tell a story.