August 25, 2005

When I woke up in Canada for the first time, I was 12 and severely jet-lagged. And I remember going out barefoot on the balcony to look down on the strange land I was now inhabiting. The first thing I saw on that sunny Sunday morning was Mount Hope Cemetery with all its green grass, angelic statues, and quiet graves. It was nothing like any cemetery I’ve ever seen — it looked like a park more than anything else. Back home, the graves were huge slabs of concrete jammed next to each other.

Over the next couple of years, I spent a lot of time in that cemetery. I had to pass it every morning to get to school, and because I didn’t have many friends I spent most of my evenings there too.

So it was somewhat moving to be back there earlier this week with a camera and some fellow photoroamers. The sunlight was spectacular and I was more silent than usual. The cemetery was still dominated by stone angels and earwigs, and after all these years little had changed.