Monday, November 11, 2002
Saturday was grey and gusty and gold-leaved. A perfect day for Crown Hill Cemetary. We ate our picnic and read poetry aloud and kissed beneath a willow tree, my husband and I did. Eleven years into this marriage and still we find time to do "nothing" together, and doing "nothing" is precisely the best thing to do. We were surrounded by riotous yellows golds ashy hues of earthy browns and rusty reds, and flocks of juncos and robins skittered through the trees with the falling leaves. It seemed no one else was in the cemetary, except for some jerk on his cell phone by James Witcomb Riley's grave. We scared him off with an enthusiastic reading of "The Raggedy Man". I felt compelled to touch the cool eroded cheeks of tombstone cherubs, feeling the grit of decayed marble rubbing off onto my warm skin. We wandered for hours...so pleasurable. So sweet.
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