The east section of the cemetery has been fenced off. The grass is unnaturally green, sodden. Headstones are strung like beads from tree roots that have surfaced. A note nailed to a venerable tree warns visitors to avoid this area, or, at the least, use extreme caution. It explains: sectional liners have aged poorly, there are drainage issues, the tree roots have compromised the graves. The headstones are sinking, the graves are collapsing.
I understand how a tree might no longer resist embracing the sleeping bodies it tended. I feel the discontent pressing against all sides, no longer willing to stay quietly settled in the plot that bears our name. I have known the desire to break free, especially when there’s been too much rain, too much time. My foundation is bursting its confines.
I came to tell you how I’ve missed your sleeping body, how I feel the urge to uproot. I touch the necklace we bought at the outdoor market, finger its beads threaded with silver extracted from the old Guanajuato mine. The caution sign warned that the tunnels were collapsing. I remember standing outside the fence, turning to go another way.