I passed behind the Jewish graveyard, as I often do, but this morning the path was empty. It was cold and sky wore a silver mist. Dew glittered like sequins on the graveyard’s wrought iron fencing. Everything seemed more beautiful in the silence.
Silence gives you a chance to think. The quiet gives you a chance to see and feel the things you normally ignore or push aside.
For the first time, though I’d taken this route almost daily, I noticed the stone angels perched on pillars and mausoleums and I thought how incredibly beautiful they looked, eternally bent in prayer for the dead. Or were they praying that God forgive the living? I wondered about this as the winter mist rolled in and formed eddies at their feet.
Then I thought how my thoughts seemed a little morbid and I wondered if that was okay. No one wants to be friends with the sad girl, with the girl who finds beauty in gravestones and mourns for the living. It’s not socially acceptable to think that way.
And then I thought some more. I thought about how I was tired of thinking. I thought so much that I crossed the street without looking and as my foot touched the opposite pavement, I couldn’t help but think what a shame it was that I’d made it safely across.