I walk in the graveyard in the evenings, hoping to spot a ghost. I must admit that it is difficult to picture ghosts sitting on those gravestones, cracked and broken though some of them are. Why they would show themselves, anyway, I reason. Would they not rather be back in their homes trying to make themselves visible to their families?

Many of the graves are very well maintained. Shiny granite surrounded by flower beds. Most are cracked though,faded and forgotten, surrounded by dry mud that was once a bower.

My mind, gleefully morbid, estimates the various stages of decay the bodies must be in. The boy who was buried last month must have begun to lose his youthful suppleness by now. Perhaps the old lady buried in the far end of the graveyard, five years ago, is a heap of bones. And what of the graves that are a hundred years old?Are their occupants truly dust to dust returned?

Why do people visit the graves of their dead after the burial? Why heap candles, flowers and so much more,decorating them as if for some festival?.Perhaps the physical proximity is comforting. Perhaps it is to show the dead that they are still loved and remembered. Or perhaps it is so that the living heal themselves.Then one day the grave is forgotten and it begins to die.

I look at the seemingly endless graveyard and i think to myself,the only thing haunting it is the silence.I no longer remember if I am dead or alive. There is a well aged and forgotten grave that has on it my name. I feel absolutely alive though. I am the ghost hunter. Sometimes when I wave at visitors they, hesitatingly wave back, sometimes they don’t. Most of the time no one notices me, not even the caretaker. I wait, perched on the grave that is supposed to be mine. The ghosts will come.