About how we tend to forget the meanings of landscapes. The cemetery is Salem Pioneer Cemetery. I never knew the name of the school. The house got torn down.
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I stood alone in a pioneer cemetery on a cold day in the shadow of an escarpment peak, and I know it was holy. I found myself on an abandoned playground at 25 and 17 side road, and I know it was a refuge. But like the old farmhouse on the grounds at my work, once draped in bunting, patriot colours, all these places lose their meaning when there's no one left believing in what they could be. Like those dinosaur bones and your amber hair, they're all just fading away. Greyscale memories.