Write about: the monument.
It is friggin' cold out right now. At least we were able to get Max out on the deck for a few minutes this afternoon to get some fresh air:
I need to get new winter gloves, as I'm pretty sure he was warmer than I was.
The monument is a simple affair, standing just over six feet tall with four sides polished until they gleam even under a grey sky like this one. Names have been engraved on every inch of the thing, or so it seems. Maybe they could fit a few more on there if they had to. I wouldn't want that job, that's for sure.
I can sense the ghosts of those honored by this structure in the air around me. Hear their whispers like dead leaves rustling, feel their touch on my skin like an arctic wind. There are other living visitors here, I see them turn up their collars and complain about the weather.
Will any of them notice as they leave that the air will grow still before they reach the parking lot? Perhaps a fellow will glance back and be startled by a breeze a few feet away that he can no longer feel.
I scan the names on the southern face, not searching for my assignment but instead for his friends. These spirits are never interested in reading their own names. Maybe at first, when disbelief is the chief emotion clinging to what remains of them. But not now. This is an old monument, and so these are old ghosts.
They move slowly around me. They lack the speed and enthusiasm and confusion of younger spirits. Acceptance has set in.
For the majority of them anyway.
I find the names I seek and settle in to wait. The ghost I have come to see could be a while in coming - who knows what other haunts he might have? So I get comfortable, relax my body, and ready the traps secreted away in my coat.