Crisp, but not cold, Autumn air filled our lungs as we strolled slowly through the cemetery on Sunday afternoon. The dirt paths were covered in crinkled leaves that crunched satisfyingly under our feet. Gravestones were spilt across the land in every direction.
K and I are crossing off a list of 100 things we want to do together and one of those things was to find the famous Bengali writer Rabindranath Tagore’s grandfather’s grave in Kensal Green Cemetery.
So we headed back to my old neighbourhood, passed under the gates to the peaceful resting place. We let our eyes roll over surnames and poetry, watching squirrels scurrying among death, birds perching on gravestones, ivy crisscrossing the engravings, flowers swirling their heads toward the sun. Saw a copy of The Power of Miracles abandoned among the leaves. A symbol of lost hope.
And we found the grave we were looking for, modest as expected.