I live behind a cemetery. It’s not something you expect to say with any sense of comfort or normalcy—but over time, it’s become strangely grounding.

My backyard ends where the cemetery begins, and through the two seasons that I’ve lived here, I’ve learned that death has its own quiet rhythm, marked by weather, ceremony, and wildlife.

This past weekend, I watched a funeral in the pouring rain. The mourners stood still under their umbrellas and the green canopy, huddled close as if the closeness might protect them from more than just the storm. It absolutely poured, soaking the grass, the fake flowers on other graves, and no doubt the grief these family members and friends were experiencing.

There was something raw and reverent about it though. No one rushed. No one ran for cover. They stood there in the downpour, honoring whoever they had lost, as if even the skies were mourning with them.

Later, when the people were gone, the casket was placed in the ground and the clouds had moved on, the deer came. The small, familiar herd that lives in the woods—calm, graceful—walked their way through the headstones. There’s even two fawns that have joined the group since the spring. They are always so fun to watch.

Eventually, the herd found the new gravesite, and one of them bent down and nibbled at the fresh flowers laid just hours earlier. I watched it pull a white rose from the bouquet and chew it slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And honestly, maybe it is. There’s a poetry to it all—the way life and death, memory and movement, share this space.

I’ve even seen a military funeral, too. The gun salute echoing across my yard (while the dog hides in the basement), the crisp folding of a flag, the solemn weight of honor and farewell. It shook something in me. Not in a fearful way, but in a reverent one.

Living behind a cemetery means I see things others might not. Grief arriving in sedans and Suburbans and leaving in silence. Families returning to old headstones with windchimes, bird houses and stories. Deer treating the graves like part of their natural path, unbothered by our need for permanence.

Having a cemetery for a backyard has taught me something subtle but important: life doesn’t stop for death.

Maybe it’s not supposed to.

The world keeps spinning.

The rain keeps falling.

The deer keep coming. Somehow, that’s all very comforting.

Behind the finality, there’s always a little motion. A little beauty. A little life still pushing forward.

Love. Give. Live.