Five Seventeen.
Cleaning grave sites is perhaps the most contemplative activity there is. It was, I suppose, what one would call unseasonably cold today. Compounding this being so was an intermittent breeze, not strong enough to be noticed, but vital enough to be real. And with the late afternoon soon peering in beneath the brim of my hat there is no room for immediate, or familiar thoughts. Just the sort that linger. To think that there will be someone I've not yet met, or as yet has not been created who will care enough for my remains after I have left this place is mind-boggling. But I do my best not to press this issue, to those before me, or the phantoms after. There is no room for thought here, though there is plenty of time enough to think. More succinctly it is not recommended, I cannot. The confrontation with finality is all too intimate here, and all too abrupt. To be certain. It troubles me to think I struggle with the thoughts of an old man, then again there are just as many dead whose...