Two years ago I came upon a little girl.
The stone slanted marker was small and old, but despite this she was clearly loved. A small concrete garden fence traced around the where she was laid. It's impossible to know if the boarder was there to protect her from being walked over or just as a way to express love for a lost child, but the sight of it stands out despite being surrounded by larger and more intricate grave markers of the era.
I remember her being near the side of one of the roads that wound through the cemetery, in the old section towards the front. Wether by carelessness of others or the sinking and changing of the earth, her little fence had become disoriented, one side fallen over completely and another on at a harsh angle. I almost walked past it but for some reason it pulled at my heart strings and I felt compelled to stop.
I spent a moment with her, getting to know what I could about her, and debating if I should disturb her at all. Ultimately I felt that repairing her resting place would be an act of love, since her parents and siblings were long gone and their children were probably gone too. I lifted the stones and shifted to earth and grass beneath them, pressing their fitted edges back together the best that could be done.
I vowed to myself to come back to make sure she was still okay, but with every visit to the cemetery I search and search for her but she's nowhere to be found.
