Cemetery

It was across the street from my second story apartment. Standing at my kitchen window, gazing north across the rim of my mug of tea on certain early mornings, I could see a rosy glow emanating off the roof of the crematorium. Too infrequently, I made a gesture towards cardiovascular health by walking or jogging along the cemetery roadways. And once, I got it into my head to furnish my apartment with flowers economically by rescuing from one of the giant trashbins a lovely bouquet of still-fresh daisies, that the groundskeeper had discarded prematurely. Only as I was exiting the cemetery gates did it occur to me that to passersby, it would appear I was grave-robbing, an especially repellant notion, given my family’s history in the funeral industry.