Ticket Three

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Ticket Three

Post  Admin on Fri Nov 19, 2010 1:34 pm

“...The green line line is experiencing an obstruction in the track, sorry again for the inconvenience.”
So begins the length of time
That’s travelling there.
“Why did I have to pick to do this trip today?”
My curses of maintenance are given
Under my breath.
I’m amazed nobody sent out a “help you” on it.

We’d thought the subway crowded
The busses were far worse.
Packed tight as sardines,
Made tighter still from winter gear
As the chill set on,
Making strangers push back to front
To make appointments at unknown locations
Of unknown importance.
I hear voices
English, Spanish, Japanese
One I can’t make out
Maybe Polish.
It sounds French at first
But it’s unarguably Slavic.
The voice of a little girl and her mother
Whispering secrets
Right under the ears of dozens of people
And getting away with it.

I’d hoped to head back at two.
It was three before we hit Fenway.
The subway rushed along, uncaring, as I missed my desired train home.
Oh well. Can’t head back yet.

Finally, the final stop.
And then a block,
A block to walk.
A pretty block.
It’s lined with trees
Beautiful
Bamboo
Japanese maple
Oak
Even a cherry, ripe with fruit.

I sigh, despaired, when I meet the gate.
Cemetery closes at 4:15
My phone says 3:43.
So long for so little, I think.

Not little at all.
Stepping through the gates
The air smells of spruce
And rot.
Comforting, wet-
The smell of mushrooms and decaying leaves.
I don’t want to go to the cemetery anymore
I want to take the path the other way;
Branch right instead of left
And keep walking even after the trail die off.
The woods promise warmth
And surprises.
I see a little rabbit hop from behind a tall elm
To hide beneath the bending boughs of a heavy limbed evergreen.
Pine needles everywhere.
I breathe deep, and the ride in disappears.
But I know I have things yet to do.

The cemetery is beautiful.
Grassy hills and tight packed stones.
It looks just as a cartoon cemetery does.
The stones are all old, all worn.
They’re streaked with green grime from years of rain.
Most of the inscriptions are illegible.
It’s beautiful.
It reminds me of childhood
Of our old house
Across the street from the cemetery
And the sleepovers beside plots
Of people who wouldn’t be waking with us.

Some of the spaces seem too small.
A closer look, a child’s grave.
The birth and death separated by 4 years, or 5.
There seem too many of these tiny plots.
I stop looking at the dates
Perhaps some of the occupants are just small in stature.

There are a series of knockers
On wooden posts.
I wonder the reason.
To knock on wood?
It seems too obvious
And superstitious.
They’re somewhat off the path, though.
Away from the graves
Hidden in the trees.
Maybe there wasn’t a reason.

I ache to see more.
There are buildings ahead,
And to my right I can see a perfect cliff.
The sloping, tree encrusted hill
Which is cut off, presumably carved out
Where the path passes below it.
I imagine its view spectacular.
It would be worth a climb.
And there’s more to see down that winding path
Which curves out of sight
Behind a fold of trees.
The leaves on some are bright, colorful
Beside dark green needles.

I look at my phone- 4:07.
I ought to go.
This beautiful place is closing its gates
And I don’t want to leave.
I know I’ll be walking home in the dark.

Admin
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Re: Ticket Three

Post  MaryShelley on Wed Dec 15, 2010 11:27 pm

I'm so pleased to see that you posted this!

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