The Little Girl Who Laughed in the Graveyard Watering my mother’s freshly seeded grave I am alone, I think, among the unliving—until those giggles electrified the empty air. Hidden by skeletal trunks of crepe myrtle she hopscotched among the mounds, her laugh the sermon I needed to hear. It said: Ignore the crows in the distant pines and their chorus of complaint. Marvel at the gall of fescue seeds bearing possibility without promise. Testify to the courage of gravestones telling so little of what they know. I, finishing up a son’s final chore, was hoping for more somehow. Yet there is a dark place in the heart that whispers Amen.
Ken Hines writes essays and poems on matters he finds puzzling. Some of those pieces found their way into Philosophy Now, The Millions, Barrelhouse, Mocking Heart Review and AIOTB. He lives in Richmond, Virginia.
Amethyst Review 