It’s a continual reburying, when you’re already buried. It’s as if because it happens a first time, somehow now it’s open season. The old cemetery, with the flimsy little wire fence attempting to hold in all the old ghosts, long ago buried some town members. With them was buried their memories, their loves, their secret heart’s desires, their knowledge, and their accomplishments. In time, those who knew them in life were also buried. Then everything was hidden as well as could be hoped.
|It requires constant vigilance, this reburying.|
It was not enough, I guess, that they were buried once, but they must be continually reburied. Like our thoughts. The ones we tell no one about, sometimes not even ourselves. First we kill them and make sure we bury them. Then we bury them over and over. We bury them in shame. We bury them in fear. We bury them in laughter. We bury them especially in indifference and apathy.
And the snow falls down and down, year after year, reburying the buried, making sure that everything stays safely hidden. That’s why we put up the flimsy little wire fence, in case the snow doesn’t do as well a job as we’d hoped. We corral those ghosts into our snow-white fields, hiding all the dirt from the first burying.
Because, after all, you can never quite bury something enough.