Photo: C. M. Highsmith, Old Live Oak Cemetery, Selma, Alabama
“There is glory in the graves.”
“No there ain’t. There is only death in them graves. And bones, if they ain’t turned meal theyselves yet.”
“I’m only reading what it says, Gramma.”
“You is only saying what is lies, then, and it don’t make it no more true in the sayin.”
“I’m sorry, Gramma.”
Moss trailed from the old trees like cobwebs strung on homes for Halloween. There was eerie beauty in them. And sorrow.
“Why did you bring me here, Gramma?” she asked.
“Because it be part of history. Good and bad, you is supposed to know it.”
“It looks really old.” And peaceful, she didn’t add.
“I hear tell they’s started buryin’ here about 1830. Didn’t have no old live oaks then, or young’uns. Just dead peoples.”
“When did they plant the oaks, then?”
“Nearabout 1880. They trees is pretty, Chile, but they graves still got no glory.”