I always felt at peace in the cemetery. In the middle of bustling Brooklyn was this quiet oasis with trees and pathways winding between the headstones. Surprisingly, no noise intruded to disturb the sleeping residents. In their conversation in the car, my father and his brother complained about making these visits, but once they knelt down to pray, I could see a change come over them. Maybe they were thinking of their own mortality and how soon they would be resting under these stately oaks. The ride home was usually quieter than the ride there.
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