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Hide yourself from the same old memories
This is not one of my stories.
My father once drove past a graveyard, late at night. Behind the rail, there was someone bowed before one of the headstones, as in prayer or contemplation, dressed in a dark coat, their hands clasped before them. But the size confused him, even seen through the edge of the headlights—smaller than a person, smaller even than a child, not even as tall as the headstone. My father stopped, backed up the car, checked again. Crouched there before the stone was a raccoon.
Whether it was always a raccoon is a matter of opinion.
My father once drove past a graveyard, late at night. Behind the rail, there was someone bowed before one of the headstones, as in prayer or contemplation, dressed in a dark coat, their hands clasped before them. But the size confused him, even seen through the edge of the headlights—smaller than a person, smaller even than a child, not even as tall as the headstone. My father stopped, backed up the car, checked again. Crouched there before the stone was a raccoon.
Whether it was always a raccoon is a matter of opinion.
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