I walked among the dead this morning, for no reason other than to be with my old friends. My eyes caressed the crosses representing their lives. They’d been dug into the side of the road that borders the sparkling water on the Caribbean Sea. Each had been fashioned crudely from short pieces of wood. But each held an orange paper flower, marigold like, delicately tied at the cross. There were many and I walked behind them, to not bother those they represented but to rather feel their presence.
It was bliss to feel them close, after having them be so far away for too long.
And we spoke. I explained how I missed them and how I still could hear their advice. I promised to light a candle and asked how they were. The answer came on the gentle rolling of the waves and their splashing against the rocks, the breeze on my face and the cry of the gull as the pelican dove for his fish.