In my hometown, there is a small, older cemetery called Cotton Gin. It isn’t very big, but toward the back there is a quiet recess, a small alcove where a reverend and several children are buried. That was my place.
I started going there when I was little. My mother would take me with her when she went to clean off my great grandparents’ graves, and she used to say that I would just disappear sometimes. She never knew where I went. She would even look in that small space and not see me there. When she was ready to leave, she would call for me, and I would simply appear back in the cemetery, ready to go.
I remember going into that space and feeling like time didn’t exist. Everything around me felt like it stood still. I would sit there with them, talk to them, and say their names. I would spend what felt like hours there, even though only minutes had passed.
I still go there.
When I visit my hometown, I make it a point to go to the cemetery. I say hello to my great grandparents and spend time with them, and then I go back to that little alcove. I still say hello to the reverend and the children as if they are old friends. I say their names as best I can read them from the gravestones, even now that they are worn down and fading.
Being in that space still feels the same. I can spend what feels like hours there, and when I leave, only minutes have gone by. That little alcove makes me feel at peace. It makes me feel safe.
Traumatized Viridimere 