There is no death without life, and cemeteries are a rich source of tiny biographies
It sounds a little strange, I know, to say that cemeteries can be pleasurable places. You wouldn’t think so, what with all the signposted mortality; everywhere you turn, a grey and mossy reminder of death; the shadow of the scythe. But it’s the stillness, the respectful hush that I appreciate.
It’s not a lofty silence. The sort found in a museum, predicated on intellect (or a performance of). It’s not the tense, taut silence of an exam. The silence in a cemetery is a carefully weighted amalgam of love and reflection, and many more emotions besides. Not all easy, obviously, but part of the human experience.