Ferncliff

As I stroll along the winding path that leads to the mausoleum, I feel a strange tranquillity - I haven't been to visit in years. It takes me awhile to find them - I keep getting lost in the labyrinth. Next to my aunt, around the corner from my father and grandfather, a smooth slice of marble waits for an engraver. I had begged for this niche until my bewildered mother finally relented. How strange, knowing the name and the date - except for the last two digits.

columbarium . . .
mourning doves
a shade greyer