quiet

it's halfway up the mountain outside a village where i've never heard the locals speak. it overlooks the entire valley all the way out to the sea.
the plot itself is not very large or impressive. each of the sixty or so gravestones has a small porcelain likeness of the person near the top, and each gravestone has the name Mezzorobba. there are some exceptions, but for the most part, the graveyard seems to have been in use primarily by that one family for more than two hundred years. brothers share graves with brothers, parents with their babies, and every single grave has flowers; some silken and some living. the small stonewalled plot explodes with headstones, lit candles, and flowers.
it was an overcast day and i didn't have many words, but my mind was flowing with the overwhelming feeling of family, permanence, belonging, and eternity. The photos of each of the deceased date back to the turn of the 20th century and they all seem to look at each other in detached exchange.
across the street there are a few trees in a field that overlook the valley and the sea to the south.