A Hill and a pile of Stones.

On the left, just before the bridge heading into town, a small road leads to the cemetery.

The turning is sharp, the way is steep and people are reluctant to go there unless they are visiting a tomb.

On Sunday the market can be crowded, parking space for out-of-towers is at a premium so some risk the precipitous junction.

“Is there any room up there?” Someone asks.

“For the dead,” someone replies.

Outside the gates a family are eating melon, the fruit is bright orange. 

Joy.

“Bon appetite,” someone says. This is France.

“Merci,” they reply. They are French.

The metal gate is unlocked; no one is going to steal anything here. It swings open easily.

The graves are all the same, grey oblong slabs.

Cold.

Unforgiving.

Except one.

Hervé’s.

His wife designed the headstone - a carved Breton cross, his name and the dates.

He was eighty-two when he passed.

And she placed the cairn of brown stones from his native fields around that headstone, one by one.

And she planted the wild mint and thyme beside.

Herve’s grave is alive with butterflies, a concerto of fluttering greets the visitor.

It is the only grave here that lives and celebrates a life.

The others mark a death.