Childhood

Up on the hill, above the White River Bridge –

On one of my daily, rambling adventures,

I would occasionally go to this cemetery.

I was welcomed by the thin, wrought iron gate,

That hung loosely on one hinge,

The trees shot up fifty feet on the perimeter,

Giant sycamores and dark hickories,

The dried grasses were yellow, tall and thick,

And fell over themselves like waterfalls.

The ground was deeply pocketed.

I always felt respectful and scared going in.

The markers were curved on top, just a

Couple of inches thick,

These worn limestone announcements

Stood slightly askew, a few had fallen flat

from weather, some were disappeared,

Many of the letters were blurry and hard to read,

These almost names, forgotten away with the wind –

It bothered me that I could not read each one,

To read their names and dream what their

Lives were like, even the babies.

To bring them back,

Even for an instant, through imagination.

I would carefully walk past the graves

Of the Indiana Brigade and

The smaller graves with only brief stays here,

I thought about those going South to Kentucky

And beyond; on foot to fight for the Union -

Wondering what that would be like.

Children who died of diphtheria, cholera,

Or other unremembered, childhood diseases,

And,

How easy it is to die unknown and alone.

In the world.