When you walk into a graveyard, there is nobody there. There is no sudden reversal of time, no enlightening consequence of the human mystery unwound by a talking headstone, or a friendly ghost, or a time switch that leaves you snuggled against your grandmother during a raging blizzard. You can’t turn the corner of the graveyard lane and be swept away by the driving snow, unsteady against the drifts that rise over your head, and you can’t knock as loud as you can against the girl-down-the-street’s front door, waiting for her to look surprised and excited. You can’t make the car stop when it hits the embankment and crushes her chest against her heart. When you walk into a graveyard you can only invite time to play tricks with you, you can only slow the music in your heart and drift back against the quiet of your memories, the ones that you never wanted to end, the ones that you never hoped to let go, the ones that brought you back on this still summer evening, hoping that you could live them again.