Making meaning and delight.
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Somehow, the cemetery had earned a reputation of being haunted. Emma Lee figured this must be true of every cemetery, to some degree, but Redwood Memorial Gardens had made its way onto a few lists of creepy cemeteries: “The Five Scariest Cemeteries in the Sierras,” “The Top Ten Most Delightfully Haunted Cemeteries in Northern California,” and “California’s Most Haunted Cemeteries.”
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Unlike many of her peers, Emma Lee woke early. This had been true even before she left home at nearly seventeen, before she had moved into the trailer. Now, she woke even earlier, to make time before school for her early morning walks among the dead. In winter, when the days were short and the mornings near freezing, she’d shrug into her faux-fur-lined parka and make her rounds, sticking mostly to the main road and well-worn paths. In summer, though, she’d weave among the gravestones, worn and tilted and water-stained, and she would solemnly read, sometimes even aloud, the names and dates and epitaphs.
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The door opened, and the woman slipped into the seat next to his.
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