You Bury Your Dead and Try Not to Forget

By Peter Bowden

The earth was soft that morning, still damp from the night rain, and the gravedigger's boots had made deep, solemn impressions in the clay. He had worked without hurry, steady and quiet, the shovel rising and falling like a breath. There were no hymns, no long speeches—just the wind moving through the trees and a dog barking somewhere far off. A man stood beside the fresh grave, hat in his hand, eyes focused on the name carved into the stone. He whispered something only the trees heard, something about the way she used to laugh at things that weren’t funny.

In town, they said he’d changed. Sat alone in the diner. Kept his boots cleaner than usual. Smoked more. But people who’d known real loss didn’t ask questions. They nodded when he passed, gave him space. He carried her memory the way you carry fire in your hands—careful, close to the skin, knowing if you held it too tight or too long it might burn right through. At night, he’d open the photo box and touch each image like a relic, afraid they might fade if he blinked too slow.

Time didn't stop, and he didn’t expect it to. Grass would grow over the grave, and the world would get loud again—trains, radios, laughter from porches. But some mornings, just before the sun hit the window, he’d feel her there, like the warmth that lingers after someone leaves a room. You bury your dead and try not to forget them. And if you’re lucky, the forgetting comes slow.


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