I lie across the road from the living. Our paths cross every day. The children smile and wave as I sit and soak up the sun. I keep an eye on the chickens and goats as they scratch between the stones. I like to see the lights come on in the houses when night falls. It is a good place. A place to be remembered. You see, where I come from we do not mourn our dead, but celebrate them. Once I was a frail, living woman, but now I am an ancestor charged with watching and guiding the ones who came after.
It’s Friday Fictioneers again! Head over to Rochelle’s and give it a try, or just read some of the other entries for some inspiration.