Since I was a little girl, I’ve held a keen fascination for country cemeteries. What are their stories? What have they seen? My feet would carry me in and around tombstones, some fallen into pieces, others completely lost under the Earth. Sometimes, I’d lay in bed wondering what the different pioneers were like – the ones whose names were etched into the very stones I’d spend hours staring at.

The name of my family’s country cemetery was Rose Hill. My mother’s buried there, but her story doesn’t wet my appetite like so many others do. Instead, when I sit cross-legged in front of her black stone, dusted over with dirt from the nearby road and grass-clippings from the last mow, I can’t help but feel a profound sense of loss. There’s no curiosity with her story...

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