Dead Whispers

Its a cold day at the cemetary. The patent leather on my shoes is streaked with the squish of mud underfoot and my socks are wet from the dew laden grass. I hesitate for a minute at the entrance to the mausoleum, adjust my hat, and wonder for a minute what all of this means.

Why every Friday after being dismissed from George C. Gill’s I walk down to the dime store and pick out little paper orchids. Or why I live in an empty, silent house. Or why the old Hudson sits rusting in the garage because I have no idea how to drive it…my father never got a chance to teach me.

Its cold in the mausoleum. Its always cold here. There’s an eerie draft that lurks around, like the dead are whispering sad wishes through it and sending them through your flesh.

I brush my fingers over their names. Its the closest thing I have. I say my hellos. Tell them how my schooling is going.

If my mother saw me, she’d think I’d gone mad. It was improper to be so foolishly morbid. That, and I had forgottten my white gloves.

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