Sneakers tied liked bunny ears and ponytails tucked under helmets, my sister and I ride our pink and green bicycles a quarter mile down the road from our house. We pause at the gate to read the sign but don’t enter. We ride further to take the back way, Racing on the gravel path to be the first down the hill. As we pedal on the now smooth, intertwining pathways, we speed past Thomas Walsh and his wife, Louise. We circle around baby Alex and little Marie. The green grass alive and flourishing, and the sun shining on our young, sweaty faces. We keep our distance when we notice a car, so we don’t disturb them— this place is not ours alone. But as soon as they leave we race again. The wind flying past our faces— we imagine this is what sticking your head out a car window feels like. After twenty minutes we grow tired and decide to leave, but not without saying goodbye to Colonel Andrew D. Walker. He died the day I was born.
usually i don't write any notes but i feel like some people may not understand this poem... the girls in the poem are riding their bikes in a cemetery.