All The Same

This morning I briefly walked around an ancient cemetery, my thoughts swirling and unsettled. Ending another blessed week with my amazing mom here in Mojave, we've had a grand time together. 

Nearby is the Hardyville Cemetery, all that is left of a town that once thrived with steamboats and cargo along the Colorado River, all gone. There was a somber air this early morning, walking in the desert. It seemed so far away from the news, the shouting headlines, all the world's hubris faded into dust. 

I've read this tiny, sixteen plot burial acre, with various sized piles of rocks separated by neat rows, has a dubious past. A tragic history of massacre, untold cruelties to the local river tribes living in the valley for nearly a millenium, they were crushed by many settlers, all vanished now.

I thought of this past election, all the vitriol, hating, sore divisions. The silence of the small cemetary seemed to mock the shrill urgency of recent days - how it's all the same to the Mohave River Valley, to the graves, and to eternity.