I had no intention of doing the following when I awoke, nor had it been on my mind in the days prior to doing it – so why, then, did I do it?
(This is all rhetorical, by the way…)
What I went on to do that day was to drive to a church in Heptonstall, not the easiest place in the world to find, to visit Sylvia Plath’s grave.
I rarely get the urge to visit the graves of people I know, let alone those of others I do not.
However, churchyards and graves hold fond memories of childhood for me, oddly.
I did not speak any words at the grave.
My hands brushed the lavender to release its scent.
The rose bush caught my eye as something that needed pruning.
The pen that someone had thrust into the soil atop of the grave annoyed me.
The solitary horse chestnut placed on top of the head stone also annoyed me.
I stayed for no longer than five minutes at the grave – it seemed inappropriate, somehow.
The day was warm and sunny – not the depressing rain and cold associated with churchyards.
And then, after those five minutes of standing around, wondering what to do, I drove back home by a different route to the one I had arrived by.
What’s that about?
And why the urge to write about it?
Where does this stuff come from?