We live next door to a beautiful cemetery.
It's a sprawling expanse of gentle hills, shaded glades, lichen-crusted statuary and row-upon-row of solemn reminders of our own fragile mortality.
I love to walk there.
The cemetery's many inhabitants are gracious neighbors. Joggers, dog-walkers and even the occasional mourner are welcomed with silent hospitality.
On bright, clear days, we take the kids.
They run happily on roads that wind between plots of graves and mausoleums, singing made-up songs and plucking dandelions, oblivious to the hundreds of stoic headstones that mark so many final resting places.
To my children, this is a place where they can be blissfully, youthfully alive.
Perhaps, to our earthbound neighbors, it is something like that, too.