The boughs of the cemetery twist like contorted bones, writhing in a silent scream. Beneath them lie the cold stones, each marking a dwelling place in which no-one is home. I'm never bothered by the howl of the wind until I must traverse this place, then it's all I can hear. All that is left of the fine people of this cemetery is the decrepit stones. Under the soil is nothing but more soil, even bones don't last that long in the damp ground. Yet still this place is nowhere to be after nightfall. No-one comes here who means any good, so though it is empty almost every dusk 'til dawn, it puts the chills on even the toughest of folks.

There was a cruel irony in the gravestone. It stood there with its youthful glow, strong, erect, ready to last a hundred years or more. Yet Nicole had already perished and begun her inevitable decay. It was something permanent to mark something so transient. Her flesh returns to the soil, the memories evaporate, her life extinguished. Her mourners flock to this cold stone as if they can halt all that, make permanent what never can be. It's something to visit when they cannot bear the separation any longer. It is something tangible and dependable when all else is in turmoil, our loved one has departed but the stone stays. I come when I feel like my foundations will crumble if I can't speak to her again, like an unsteady Jenga tower with someone tugging at a crucial brick. I know it's ridiculous, but somehow this slice of rock steadies me again and sends me back to my life. So until we are united in the here after, I will visit like every other soul who has lost a piece of themselves.