The bus rumbled past the old graveyard on my way back from the mall to Risley. We were driving past the golf course, and opposite the green was a quaint little graveyard. There was an arch, like in a wedding procession at the entrance of the graveyard, and across the arch was printed ‘Pleasant Grove’ in white capitals. It makes one wonder, doesn’t it? Is the graveyard called Pleasant Grove because the people in it are all dead? It is the single most misanthropic sign I have ever seen, but it makes you think that its designer must have been of the race that knows Joseph.
Justine gave me a little pot of purple tulips today. They are perfectly elegant, rising from the black earth like goddesses. As they sit on my desk they are taller than I am, seated, and they deign not to cast me even a withering glance. I would hope that they never cast me a withering glance, although it seems quite inevitable.