Driving too fast to the pharmacy that I learn has face masks in stock after weeks of none, I pass the block-long cemetery at the end of my street. It was created in 1883, with half of the grounds devoted to African-American graves and the other half owned by the Lutheran Church. The two parts are divided by a wide dirt path called Hallelujah Lane. Not so long ago, it was possible to see the occasional Confederate flag on an old grave, but only the African American section still has burials. As I pull to the traffic light, two men are digging a grave by hand near the corner. Sweat runs down their faces in the heat as they take turns wielding a shovel in the hole. One relaxes as the other strains under the load of dirt. This is a scene as old as time played out over thousands of years, but it’s one I’ve never witnessed.

Graves have always awaited the mourners at funerals, dug by backhoes, or some other emotionally neutral equipment and discreetly draped.

I don’t know who this grave is for, but these shovels cut through the veneer of anonymous deaths that often have been somewhere else during this great illness and make a mockery of divisions of black and white. Now, this bed of earth demands attention, saying, “Look, here, this is life and death, and mud and flowers and love and someone left behind. Don’t ever forget.” Hallelujah.

Nikki Hardin is a writer of stories, musings, and memories. Her poetry has been published in Riverteeth Journal. She was the founder and publisher of skirt!, a monthly women’s magazine in Charleston, South Carolina. You can reach her at nikki@thedailynikki.com.