The flowers are clenched between your hands. The blooming daises drop down over your fingers for they are sad and disturbed. Your back is damp with perspiration for the sun has been beating down upon your bowed being, digging its rays into your soul for hours on end, and you have simply stood there in solitude, waiting for nothing.

            You stare at the grass, and watch with childish fascination as the blades sway back and forth in the cool breeze. And then you wonder how the blades have become so tall and why that field remains green, each day, each month, each year. Perhaps there is a possible connection between the bright vegetation and the souls we mourn. Maybe there’s a reason the weeds and flowers and other plants explode with vigor around those carved stones we cherish. The thought tumbles through your head though you suppress the sick image of your true love’s life being given to feed the scenery.

            You hug yourself, possibly for protection from the cool wind, or maybe to imagine that she is hugging you once more. It’s hard to think that never again you’ll see her smile, hear her laugh, or feel her touch. Though it’s been years since that day, it seems like not long ago she was lying in your bed, arms around your torso, in the pleasant sanctuary of sleep. Never again…

            The day is old now, and you suddenly hear the soft voice next to you, anxious to return home. You don’t want to leave; you never want to leave, though there is another life to consider at this moment. With a slow bow of the head, you place the sad daises beside the great stone and then run your hands over the words carved into the rough rock. You know what it says. Those lines have been etched into your mind just like they’ve been etched into that tombstone.

            The time has now come. The soft voice is becoming more forceful and more agitated. Accepting the obvious, you grasp your child’s small hand and lead them away from the grave of their mother. At times you can feel her presence in the air, or perhaps it’s merely your imagination. Non-the-less, the green grass that grows throughout her site is fed by her death, from six feet below, and brushing your fingers over that green ground is perhaps as close as you will ever get to feeling her touch again.