I first heard of the cemetery in Lorain History class, seventh grade...I'd remembered what I'd always thought was a park at that location, but had always been in a moving car when passing the spot. One fall afternoon, I decided to walk down there, and see for myself.
I arrived at the spot, and was puzzled...if this was a cemetery, where were the headstones? They weren't visible from the sidewalk. As I started up the walk that ran down the center of the park, I could finally see the stones, recessed into the ground. They were old, every date from the nineteenth century, weathered, some almost unreadable.
I noticed one stone, right outside the window of the house next door...it was the grave of a girl, who'd died at the age of sixteen, only four years older that myself. It saddened me, and made me ponder what it would be like, to die so young.
Over the years, I returned many times to the cemetery, to enjoy the solitude. Sometimes, but rarely, there would be others there, quietly walking around, or examining the stones. The very last time I was there, a marker with a bronze plaque had been placed at the entrance, commmorating the cemetery's recognition as an historic site.
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