Just on the other side of my garden lies a town cemetery, wisely placed far above Hardwick’s flood plain, with a rooftop view of the village, built on a sandy hillside and along a river. Interestingly, the villagers frequently use the cemetery as a public green space, and older women with little dogs or couples holding hands frequently pass by my elderberries.
New to this house, my daughters and I leap the fence and are beginning to know these stones – names and dates and what little local lore we’ve garnered.
Our favorite is the couple with a pithy phrase on one side – She always did her best – and on the other end – He did not. Our visitors usually pause, blinking, and then laugh out loud.
By the dates, I notice he died twenty years before his wife.
Revenge or love? It must be love. My daughters and I – we’re sticking with that theory.
We could have some arrangementBy which I’d bind myself to keep hands offAnything special you’re a-mind to name.Though I don’t like such things ’twixt those that love.Two that don’t love can’t live together without them.But two that do can’t live together with them.