Close to our house a graveyard lay
With our garden in between.
An old man came each week to rake
And to keep the graveyard clean.
I’d hear his rake strike on the stones
And run through the garden to see,
Pretending to pick tomatoes
Knowing he would talk to me.
I’d hang across the barbed wire fence
While he leaned upon his rake.
His toothless smile, his hat pushed back;
Trips to the past he would take.
“This was my Grandpap,” he would say;
Or “My brother lies right here.”
Sometimes his stories made him sad
And he’d have to shed a tear.
I asked him questions endlessly
And he answered with a smile;
A sweet old man who took the time
To explain to a small child.
When I drive past that graveyard now,
It’s grown into disrepair.
An old man smiles as I pass by;
In my mind, he’s still standing there.
copyright © 1998 by moleta ruth mccarter. all rights reserved.
