Getting Macabre with Maggie Mitchell

That stroll was meant to burn off a rather large brunch platter of grits, scrambled tofu and an incredibly tangy black bean salad. That stroll was meant to enjoy a lazy saturday afternoon on a perfect summer day - just enough warm winds and ample sun rays piercing through large chunks of east bound clouds. That stroll was to celebrate the simple joys of weekend life.

While at that, I figured I would pay my respects to Margaret Mitchell. No flowers. No tears. Just my utmost regards to a literary stalwart who lay cremated there. My stroll was through Atlanta's historic Oakland cemetery. It was my first visit. Any cemetery, for that matter. About 200 meters into that stroll, when my mind stopped doing the math, of calculating the age based on the two prominently engraved years on the epitaph, when I stopped internalizing the loaded eulogy, it occured to me, "Is this what it comes down to?" All the vibrance of life laid to rest on a 6 x 4 plot of land.

Could you tell that, that young civil war soldier died thinking of feeling his girl friend's freckles against his lips more than thinking of a confederate that had to be saved?

Could you tell that, all that wealth, all that isolation in a mansion, of that rich cotton mill owner could not save him from a epidemic that knew no human boundaries?

Could you feel that heavy tear shed from an infant's mother who lost him barely a month after he was born?

The vibrance of life laid to rest.

So, while I am still alive and kicking, let me create all that vibrance that I shall feel in my death. So that YOU, now barely in your fetal position, waiting for your turn, for your fair share of life, shall one day ponder about and write a dry introspective sunday morning piece like this.