by adam mathes
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Every spring the smell of freshly cut grass makes me think of death, and reminds me of a childhood spent in cemeteries.

But the words “cemetery” and “death” have such dark connotations and seem so morbid to people, but my thoughts are not dark or morbid, or even sad. I think of cemeteries with a nostalgic love most people reserve for baseball diamonds or an old tree-fort.

I liked working in that cemetery as a child. I never had to deal with dead people. I was just an assistant-groundskeeper. I planted; I weeded; I cut grass. I helped flowers grow as the dead silently watched.

Sometimes I think it’s the only place of my youth I ever really found peaceful.

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