Seed Road
The Tipton cemetery
is located
on a slight hill
about a mile
east of town.
As cemeteries go
in these parts,
it is on the smaller side,
perfectly squared off
by a colonial stone wall
with its unassuming entry point
off Seed Road.
The most recent headstone –
Emma Leigh Farber –
marks her death
on 6 April 1995,
a Sunday;
between her name
and that date,
7 April 1905.
Laid to rest with her parents,
both of whom were born
in the 19th century,
there is no mention
of siblings, spouse, or kids.
Debbie from Pittsfield
once told mewe live our lives
in the delusion
that we can keep
someone else
from suffering.
If only
that were true,
I thought,
as I wandered through
Tipton cemetery
one warm September afternoon,
fall unfurling
in the purplish off-white petals
of the wild Modesty
bursting through crevices
in the wall.
I thought of Debbie,
of her relapse
after years in recovery.
A bad back,
she’d say.
I know it’s fucked up
but I’m in pain.
I thought of her husband,
two daughters, grandchildren,
all bound by anguish.
She gradually disappeared
into herself,
a whitetail doedarting through thick birch
along Seed Road,
amber gold leaves twisting
in the autumn sun,
young Emma never more
than a fawn’s breath behind.
The Paddock Review 