The day is beautiful.
I am playing hooky.
The top is down and the sun is washing over me.
Things could not be more perfect.
To my left, I drive past a cemetery. I see flowers on aside the headstones, signs of recent visitors. I see statuary of religious figures standing guard over the tiny plots of land.
I think of the men and women buried on those grounds, three hundred feet from a strip mall. Young teens gather outside a pizza shop, planning their Friday night. They don’t even see the burial grounds. Their minds are racing with thoughts of spring, the coming summer, the first flirtations of their blossoming lives.
Still, I think of the dead. Specifically, of the dreams, the plans, the goals, the flirtations they left behind. What did they want to accomplish before the clock stopped ticking? Were they in love? Where did that passion go? Was it ever fulfilled?
We are led to believe that the dead don’t dream. And that may be true, but a nanosecond before their hearts turned cold, their brains were filled with wild imagination.Email This Post