What questions I have for you tonight, Abigail, for I’ve come here tonight way past my curfew, cold and lost as I try to locate your stone.

In my growing depression, and shopping for answers, I drove into this cemetery, mind exploding with confusion.

What darkness and what gloom. Bouquets of roses everywhere. Rows full of headstones! Wives who died from cancer, sons who died from drugs.- -and you, Kristin, why is your headstone in the third row?

I saw you, Abigail, friendless, lonely baby girl, crawling through the dirt and not once shedding a tear.

I heard you asking questions of each: What had you been thinking? Does anyone mourn for you? Did your Mother not want you either?

(I trace the letters of your name with my fingers and dream of what you would have been like and feel saddened.)

Will we walk all night with the other lonely spirits? The dead add chill to chill, bodies turning in their graves, we’ll both be frightened.

Will we stroll dreaming of our lost sisterly bond past tombs of multiple sizes, home to my parked car?

Ah, dear sister, deceased, lonely unknown friend, what America did you have when Mother quit trying and you were born too early and laid helpless as your life slowly left you?