I live across the street from a cemetery. I know this because my front window faces a sign that says, “Silver Hill Cemetery, est. 1892, Private Property.” It’s a nice sign, large and attractive, but it truly is the only sign that the beautifully mown meadow is a graveyard. There are no markers.
Apparently, segregated African-American Southerners were buried there up until the 1950’s. Neighborhood speculation is that the markers were wooden, and biodegraded. There was once a small church on the land. There is also a rumor that it is called Silver Hill because it was a place to meet buyers of confiscated pieces of silver taken from the homes in which domestics worked.
The other day, a young girl knocked on my door. She was student looking for the summer work of tutoring children. As she was leaving, she offhandedly asked me, “Isn’t it creepy living across from a graveyard?”
Her question startled me. No. It is not the least bit creepy. It’s lovely. It’s peaceful and pristine. I like to think about the people who are there, and it’s a privilege to have such spiritual neighbors.