Roads snake through soft hills and valleys of green grass, dotted with trees; sentinels keeping watch. Flowers and decorations come and go with the seasons, but what is ever present is a sense of calm and peace.
My 40-acre room is a cemetery. It has been alive longer than me, but I know it well. People come, most with respect and circle around each other for support. But then they are gone and only fresh turned soil marks their time spent.
This is where I write, pondering life and death, cause and effect. What were their lives like? What stories are now locked beneath the perpetual care of strangers?
A handful of stories have been shared with me over these years spent comforting broken hearts. But so many more remain. How many generations of stories are lost when the telling ceases?
And so, I sit in my 40-acre room and write those that I can, whether through prose or poetry in the hopes that their voices and mine will not be forgotten.
Sandy Moffett ©2020