Dirge

A hidden grove lies off the beaten path.

Tibetan prayer flags.

Dreamcatchers.

Rosaries dangle from tree branches, shining in the late-day sun.

Photos of dogs. An old, faded photo of a cat. A sun-bleached basketball reads “RIP HANS”.

Who is Hans? Guess I’ll never know.

Nor will I know that smiling Asian woman whose laminated photo sits under prayer flags, next to a small clay figurine marked with the words “SMILE TODAY”.

There’s a small, handmade bench here. But I dare not sit, as I feel it would desecrate the sacredness of this hidden space.

Nor do I wish to stand in it for too long. There’s an energy here. It’s palpable.

Nor do I wish to post its coordinates, or photos that fail to capture the sadness here, in this quiet place where the wind just doesn’t seem to blow.

All I can do is bow.

And hope that my gesture of respect protects these memories from those that would add it to their instagram stories, remove it or otherwise profane this dirge with empty cans of beer and cheap graffiti.

All I can do is leave, and go back the way I came.

A mere description is the best I can really do.