We drive past the markers and headstones entombed in silence. The deer don’t mind the quiet. It’s what draws them here. They hide behind granite angels and graze on grass the color of their thick hides.
We keep the windows rolled up, not because we’re afraid of the air, the way I was as a child, holding my breath. We don’t want the life inside our vehicle to spill out into the cemetery: the music, the singing, the shouts and giggles.
We drive through on Sundays, not an homage to the day or even to the dead. We just like to drive the winding road through river birch and pine. A few trees here and there are knotted and dead, but beautiful, like these other remnants, left behind.
We spot the deer like hidden pictures, the black globes of their eyes shining, revealing.
Bury me here, I tell my husband. I like the idea of the deer keeping me company. It’s not frightening, not now that we’ve practiced coming here together.