One grave is neat as a pin, a widow’s cottage. Not so much as a leaf has fallen on the clean-swept dirt: none would dare. The stone has been scrubbed, incessantly. And down below in cozy oblivion, you can almost hear the knitting needles click.
The grave next door has been abandoned, its fence tottering and the gate unhinged. No stone there, but a board you’d nail over the windows of an empty house. And weeds. A restless spirit has packed up his bones and moved on. He must have heard the rumor that death is always better somewhere down the road.