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Cemeteries do not smell like dead people.
They smell like dried flowers. Long-forgotten, as if someone intentionally left them to wilt. I was pleasantly surprised; i was expecting something far worse. It was the scent of commemoration, not the stench of neglect.
I make it a point on weekends to take walks by myself, taking pictures of whatever catches my fancy; be it graffitied walls, colorful gates and doors, or accidental artwork from stacks of detritus. One day, I decided to walk around a cemetery near us.
It is true that one is not aware of these places of rest until someone close to them dies; in my case it was my mother's. It makes me think of the inevitability of demise and mortality, all the time. A sense of preparation, perhaps. One can never be too ready for death though.
