There’s a place down in Water Valley, Memphis that I go to on occasion. I can’t remember what it is by name, but it makes me nervous whenever I visit. It’s a cemetery.

My great grandmother is buried there; so is my grandpa. I witnessed my grandpa’s funeral and watched him be put into the ground. He was buried next to a guy who died in the early 1900s and a baby who died somewhere around 2003. The headstones there grab my attention.
There are so many you could get lost searching for the ones that you are looking for. Some are old and crumbly from the 1800s and some are recent, 2010, if you will. I like looking at them and reading the names aloud. Ken. Anne. Clara. All of them are engraved neatly on the headstone.

There is giant marble coffin with the name “Thomas” on it. It’s above ground and is at least 10 feet long and 6 feet wide. Thomas must have been a wealthy man to have that kind of a burial. I think he was from the 1930s. But the fact that his body is encased in that large stone box makes me nervous.

Every time I visit my grandpa, I look at the tombstones with the flowers their loved ones left. There is something about that cemetery that sends a chill down my spine. Like the thousands, upon thousands, of dead people are watching as I pass, staring back at me through the headstones.