Driving through the gates

Of this sleeping place,

We pass potter’s field

and turn up the hill

Dotted with flat, tipped stones

Toward the Armenian section.

When Yankee names turn Greek

We know we’re close to the place

Where an underground suite holds

Bone and dust in separate boxes

Capped by granite dotted with moss and lichen

That we scrape off with our shoes.

We run away down a hill and move among graves,

Alert for ancient letters that form names

Chiseled as they were in the old country.

We shout when another ancestor is found.

We read names out loud.

We take photos of headstones.

We are buoyant and alive,

Still visitors in this place

Where faint murmur and hum

Draw us closer together

Like children preparing to hold hands.