Itis so hard to hold my breath
and still talk to you.
I feel sweat drippingdown
my neck and try to understand.
As I pass the molding stones thatread
nineteen twenty-four, eighty-one years old,
I only think that he wasalive during the
Civil War.
He had friends, a family,
and none of themare here any more.
They are with him now,
but who is here to visit himdaily?
I silently keep him, that unknown face,
inside my head.
As I kickrocks and dirt fills up my shoes,
my sister wants to know how long ittakes
for a skeleton to show,
for all of the skin to disappear.
I feelsick and try not to listen to her
endless questions -
I want toleave.
It is so hard to hold my breath
and walk at the sametime.
Each stone says, "Always in our hearts,"
Always in whosehearts?
Who is here to remember?
I cry for each life,
although I can'tunderstand why.
"Stillborn twins," reads one,
"Eight yearsold, missed by all," says another.
I try to understand, but Idon't.
And then I see it.
I see my own last name in large lettersengraved
on a large gray stone.
I stand at the grave's edge, my throatclosing,
my eyes burning.
I no longer feel the gentle sadness
of walkingand passing all those other gray stones.
I no longer feel the sympathy that Ifelt
walking above them.
All I can feel is hurt and pain;
all I canthink is one thing.
I got into Cornell,
I tell you,
You would have beenso proud.
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