There’s a cemetery on 8th Street.
Most, if not all, were names that I didn’t know; outside of one that I recalled from a statue in town, as is usually the case with a cemetery.
There wasn’t much for us to do other than walk and talk. Maybe stop and stare at a gravestone every now and then, and wonder how someone died.
We’d gotten breakfast and coffee from Rose & Fern, and tried our best to not drop half of our spendings on the dirt path that stretched interwoven through the entirety of the grounds.
The day was cloudy overhead, but the rain stayed kept in sky up until we reached the house again.
Then it poured.
And I had the pleasure of watching it pour.
.
.
.
Micah Mabey
