The forgotten dead call to me.

Artsy Fartsy Parrot Mama
2 min readApr 7, 2022
Photo by Anton Darius | @theSollers on Unsplash

I know it sounds creepy, but I can’t pass a graveyard without hearing them.

I’m not one of those special people like in The Sixth Sense or Stir of Echoes (great movie, by the way). I don’t see dead people or hear them speak. Not verbally, anyway.

I feel them in a different way — especially in tumbled-down old graveyards that seem abandoned.

For a while, I lived down the road from a graveyard that stood alone on one half of a city block. The church attached to it had been relocated ages ago, and the 300-year-old graves always looked forlorn.

Someone trims the grass between the graves. Some decrepit caregiver — the son of a son of a son of a parishioner from so long ago — does a half-ass job.

It’s called “perpetual care.”

Tree boughs and leaves have fallen and rotted all around the graves.

I know that under each gravestone is a person, a body, into which the air of life once breathed.

Each person had a name.

A birthday.

A mother.

A father.

The oldest areas of the graveyards are filled with tiny grave markers.

In the right light, I can see the birth and death dates are just a few months…



Artsy Fartsy Parrot Mama

Book nerd and freelance writer finding gold in ordinary places. And I always follow back.