Very still, their eyes on the middle distance, long hair twisted and tied in back, high-waisted chemises covering modest bosoms, these young women populate the cemetery.Visitors wander the paths, point out to each other monuments and structures, say the names of families, individuals, dates, admire sculpture and landscape and foliage,and then leave. Not so these jeune fille who stand, hot under the sun, wet under the rain, cold under the snow, sun and moon climbing up and down from horizon to horizon over and over, and like good servants, still ponder the mysteries that occasioned their creation.
I imagine unfocussed eyes tightening up as night frees them from surveillance, and whispers traveling, not on sightlines which never intersect, but along the currents of the darkness, not the angels who are sent to watch, nor those resolutely grasping books or anchors, or pointing confidently upward, but rather those adolsecents snatched in some reverie, frozen into stone and made to gently wonder forever on behalf of the grief and grievers long gone.
It's so good to be awake, they say to each other as their spirits pivot from contemplation of loss to the presence of the place, the cool dampness of its air, the rustle of its trees. In the distance, the hospital's lights blink on an off through wind rocked branches. Drag racers score the night with their unmuffled roar. These girls stretch and whisper out into the darkness, not along the sightlines which never intersect. They answer back, and start to chat and make plans. Can they get away long enough to listen in to the happy talk at the coffee shop at the train station down the road? Can they even get to the dance club, and move to the music.
But it'll take time to extricate, time to hitch rides on passersby, and perhaps everything will be closed by the time they get there and perhaps the pores of the stone will be closed by the time they get back. Not melancholic but frustrated tears now, and not soft words but sharp. Still, undressed and unshod, shaking their hair loose, at whatever cost, they set off to find whatever life they can.
I imagine unfocussed eyes tightening up as night frees them from surveillance, and whispers traveling, not on sightlines which never intersect, but along the currents of the darkness, not the angels who are sent to watch, nor those resolutely grasping books or anchors, or pointing confidently upward, but rather those adolsecents snatched in some reverie, frozen into stone and made to gently wonder forever on behalf of the grief and grievers long gone.
It's so good to be awake, they say to each other as their spirits pivot from contemplation of loss to the presence of the place, the cool dampness of its air, the rustle of its trees. In the distance, the hospital's lights blink on an off through wind rocked branches. Drag racers score the night with their unmuffled roar. These girls stretch and whisper out into the darkness, not along the sightlines which never intersect. They answer back, and start to chat and make plans. Can they get away long enough to listen in to the happy talk at the coffee shop at the train station down the road? Can they even get to the dance club, and move to the music.
But it'll take time to extricate, time to hitch rides on passersby, and perhaps everything will be closed by the time they get there and perhaps the pores of the stone will be closed by the time they get back. Not melancholic but frustrated tears now, and not soft words but sharp. Still, undressed and unshod, shaking their hair loose, at whatever cost, they set off to find whatever life they can.
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