Ok, at this point I question whether or not I am a writer. I haven't written in so long, I feel like a born-again virgin on her wedding night...awkward, but still knows how to do it.

I like graveyards. I have loved them all my life...the weathered stones with the half seen numbers delineating life and death, the lasting sentiments written by loved ones still alive.

I like to walk them, imagining the moments of each person, once laughing and crying and birthing and cooking and holding hands.

Did they hold hands? Were they generous with their material goods? Did they work hard, scraping and saving and then leave it to the next generation? Were they mean spirited and nasty?

Did the ones that left their stones love them? That is the burning question for me.

The only question...

I like to touch the stones and try to fathom their lives, and hence better my own.