“The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.” Should this not have an apostrophe either after the L or the S? Depending of course if there are multiple devils. No matter to this story. Buried here is one Harry Frank. He was thirty-three when he died. He was buried at the northern edge with only a small cross to mark his grave.
On the anniversary of his death, September ninth, a lone figure will make their way up the slope. It is no easy task for one who uses a cane. The limp prevents most activity, but for this annual occasion, our visitor pushes past the pain and makes his way along the narrow path. Names are recognized now and then. A few stray weeds are plucked freeing the words on the headstones.
The man who shall remain nameless sits on a small bench. A slight rain fell this morning making the way somewhat difficult. Small rivulets run across the path and around the mounds. He rests and breathes deeply the smell of September. Many Autumns have come and gone for him. Many time has he made this trek. How many? The number matters not.
The last few strides are the hardest. Winded he drops to his knees and brushes aside the dead growth at the base of the weathered cross. Then the guilt comes and he wonders again why his friend had to go instead of him.