The day was strange.
It was quiet; birdless bird feeders swung idly in the discomposing wind.
"No Trespassing" had fallen to the ground to be trampled and ignored. The plants were brown as death. And a cinder block had cracked.
What happened?
The rusting gate, strangled by ivy, reminded her of being a child and of secret gardens and of ghosts.
Of books and white dresses. Of being alone.
The woman in the cemetery had a locket 'round her neck. Anne thought that she was dead. The woman. The locket hung from her dead neck as she walked amongst the headstones. The woman's neck. Anne was eight.
Anne was no longer eight, and her grandmother was dead. She wore the dead woman's shoes. Tiny shoes with tiny heels from dusty boxes. She was gone. Anne's grandmother. Faded away like childhood and secret gardens and ghosts. Dissolved.
To spring from broken cinder blocks?
Anne's friend gave her a locket to wear 'round her neck.
