Logos

The sunny, frigid wind knifes at my cheeks, sharp, stinging and burning, no blood to prove it. My legs aren’t there, yet they keep moving stiffly forward. With Raybans aloft, I tilt and squint at the towering gothic monuments to death. A full blown statue of a man stands atop a concrete structure that is serving the purpose of a graveside guard. I don’t know who he is and why. Aside it are taller towers competing with it. These grand structures look down on the hillside of headstones standing in line. The occasional spooked balloon bobs about on a lone stick. A few leftover shiny bows still attached to tattered wreaths shows someone cares. The lake is glazed with ice today- the geese are not around- only the frozen poop dotting the paved lane. The sky is bright-baby blue with cotton clouds. I come here in all seasons and every graved hill holds its own beauty; with each holiday décor. The springtime here will be a feast for the eyes- flowering trees of purple and white. beautiful lush green lawns dotted with bouquets. Death and life coexisting.