Headstones and Sycamores
The cemetery smells of freshly-cut grass and herbs to her.
The stench of rail lubricant is undercut by a breath of mint. The screech of brakes is barely audible over the chirping of the birds and the rustling of the sycamore’s leaves.
Each marble grave is clean and polished, shining in the summer sun like a bastion against the darkness. Eighteen headstones, laid to rest in a widening spiral with a grand sycamore in the centre, and lined intermittently with deep purple lilies. Summer’s soft glow flickers through protective branches in the breeze, suffusing the…