Actually, in part, I must agree with Sticks.
When my mum died, I went along the cemetery - very often initially, and I found it very comforting.
As I slowly recovered, I looked around and
found that I was surrounded by life.
Each visitor represented another story, each had their reasons for going. Duty, devotion, or habit. We rarely did more than exchange pleasantries, but
we each knew how the other
felt. There was an unspoken bond.
As time went on, I began to look at the very old stones, fom the 18th and 19th centuries. Fascinating!
Widows described as 'Relicts' of their spouses, children who did not survive infancy, and flurries of graves corresponding to the great influenza epidemic of 1919 and 1920.
The neat rows of Polish war graves, with unpronouceable name after name, all tragically young.
Nothing to be scared of in a cemetery. Just a reminder of the human condition.
If it reminds us to live whilst we can, and to count our blessings, it's not all bad, is it?
