After the restaurant, went to a cemetery in Norfolk. We were drawn to a large crucifix. I was interested in the family plots, too.
After staring at the huge crucifix, I wrote:
Stones at the foot of Jesus hanging on the cross. A blue, gaunt body, arms stretched, face resigned, “Father, if it is your will let this cup pass from me.” If not, I will preside over Rev. Walsh, 1898-1961, “Thou art a priest forever”. Rev. Monsignor Michael Cannon, 1896-1977, Ordained 1920. Fathers, priests bishops, reverends and their flock I go to prepare a place for you. The place is heaven; the time is now.
This is the last thing I wrote:
This is a place where it’s probably OK to think about death, including your own. It’s not really about the times when you said, “I could die.” “I’m going to kill you.” “Gosh, you’re killing me right now.” No, it’s the time to think about when your grandma passed, changing your life forever. It’s the time to think about when the marriage ended and you swore you had nothing to live for. It could even be time to think about the prayer you made hoping to make it to see your grandchildren.
What did the writing marathon do for me as a writer? It made me stop and actually look at the things and people around me. It also made me tinker with writing short stuff.
