charles barrow's writing

I've always enjoyed visiting cemeteries, or wandering around them I should say. No one near and dear to me has ever been buried in a cemetery, we're all about cremation in my gang, so I have never had a destination grave that I could deliver flowers to, a headstone that I could reflect silently beside; one that records the barest details of a loved one's life. My forebears' ashes float out at sea or, rather, feed the fish at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe that's why I enjoy a stroll through a graveyard, I'm not emotionally invested. I am always intrigued though; by the choice of marker (stone, granite, cross, statue, urn), how well it's tended (fresh/wilted flowers, plastic ornaments, polished marble), the occupant's names that always seem to conjure Victorian maiden aunts, and Edwardian railway porters, and of course those all important bookend dates (enviably distant cousins, or woefully close siblings) that both start and finish all of our stories. My...

This gravestone, in the shape of an open book, was only about two foot wide. So, small for a head stone and it's sinking into the ground. Photo is the author's own.

A trip to a grave yard last week produced this photo and the one above. I especially liked this one because of the proximity of the tree and the gravestone. I've heard tell that in the far, long past a person would be buried with an acorn clutched in their hand so that an oak tree would grow out of the heart of them. Photo is the author's own.