Where the cemetery sloped away to the flowing waters of the Schuylkill River the land became heavily wooded.
Across the river was a city of long disused stone mills and church spires that I visited on days away from Hennesey's market. I loved how the weak light of winter fell on the gray schist of the buildings, reminding me always of childhood. I went there.
On a steeper hill I stopped and turned to look back across the river toward the cemetery. A bird circled black on the whiteness of an obelisk peak. I thought of Eileen and tears rose again in my eyes. Just then a clergyman in black walked past by on the sidwalk all silence and reserve, hands clasped behind himself. Observing him disappear around a bend in the street I thought of church; of mass. I hadn't been in years. I climbed that very high street to where the heavy stone steps of the church began and, climbing them, opened the thick wooden door. It was extremely dark and smelled of incense. I thought of the tombs and took a seat on a creaking pew and then waited.