They place sticks above me, one at a time.
Lifeless twigs, dry and brittle like the suit they dressed me in. It’s my family, my friends. And you.
They let gravity pull the sticks towards me. A subtle bundle of weight, unconscious like a canvas, patient to add to the gravel that separates me from you. I claw at the box they put me in; nothing I can do will rattle the soil above me.
Why do you let them drop dead flowers on my grave?
The earth swallowed my voice. Nobody can hear me scream. One after the other, they say their goodbyes. With each word, the frail twigs inch into the soil packed above me. But you remain. Tears nurture the grave distance between us, trace a path for the twigs to follow. Somebody takes you away.
Why do you allow these twigs to burry into me?
A month, a year, and even longer has passed. The stick bearers return, sometimes together, other times alone. With them, they bring our memories.
They pray. Condolences long since tempered by the reality that I am dead. My voice no longer wanted. Their anger, no longer hidden. The box has given way to the earth around me, my hands outstretched not towards them, but towards the sticks they left behind.
And towards you. Your visits the only constant. Your anger gone, your sadness waned towards the patience the sticks have displayed.
I am with the sticks you left behind.
I know now that you know. With each prayer, the sticks burry deeper into the soil that divides us. With each kiss, my resting place opens up for their roots to take hold. With each memory, my soul can find the twigs they long ago left behind. And with each day that passes, we can find our reflection in the glass of the day that I died.
Night falls, as do days. Visits wane. But not my love. You always find me.
And on your last day, when the roots have consumed me, we are joined by the flowers that bloom above.
Categories: Creative Writing