I live in the land of graveyards now. The dead are everywhere. They don’t even stay behind their wrought-iron fences; anyplace there’s a patch of grass and trees crammed between railroad tracks and the street, they might be there. The other day I found a revolutionary war captain buried under the oaks at the south end of the Arboretum.

This one’s from Forest Hills Cemetery.


  1. I’m glad you’re exploring these. Forest Hills always struck me as a weird place with outstanding tombstones. (Did you see the one with the old lady seated atop it?)

    1. I think I’ve seen the one with the old lady–she is all draped in veils and is sort of pulling them off like she’s getting up from the grave to go off to heaven?

      There’s another one that I am too respectful/creeped out to take a photo of: a little glass house with a peaked roof and oxidized brass joints, inside of which is a pure white statue of a little Victorian boy in gerry-curls and a sailor suit, riding in a tiny boat with a collection of his toys.

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