My feet sink into the rain-soaked ground: treading lightly as I subtract four numbers from four numbers,
pondering people, life, and death.
It is not cold out today, a light jacket will do just fine,
but the headstones of toddlers and infants make me wince and shiver as if the wind was blowing hard.
Death, though you have no victory, you remain a mystery.
This solitude and silence speak to my soul.
Will I be a twenty-something who had the years snatched out of his palm?
Will I be a middle aged man?
Or will I be a 100-year-old grandpa who's grandchildren only remember him as crippled and senile; now buried in a distant field?
I am, at last, speechless at the stone marking a life that lasted just one day.
I lap my tongue in my mouth and swallow hard.
Now there is a pep in my step to find the exit.
I want to go home, put the wheel back on my bike, and ride to the horizon.
My inhales are long, this air tastes good.
And I can see you smiling.
I hope I can find you.