I still grieve.

Despite my knowledge that the grave was empty, I still knelt beside its delicately craved tombstone and grieved for the man it was supposed to represent. This tomb, his tomb, was left as a gift. It was a place to air past ills, have solitude, and peaceful reflection. After all, who would bother the dead or the weeping widow?

The tomb had never brought me comfort. In hindsight, it probably would have, had I listened to his last advice. He had implored, begged, and ordered me not to follow in his wake, but how could I not? Despite his annoying idiosyncrasies, he would was more than just a man or a friend to me. Although it was hard to explain to anyone else, he would represent an idea for me. He was literally life without limitations.

He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to, just because he could.

I had told myself that many, many, times after the mock funeral and that damn memorial was set into place. Rationally, I understood how he could give such a "gift," and what he thought I might gain from it, but it didn't ease the pain.

It didn't quench the searing longing, nor warm the abyss of loneliness left in his absent-minded wake.

He hadn't died. I had just been cut out of his life like a pesky and persistent tumor.

Touching his tombstone for what I hoped would be the final time, I realized that I wasn't grieving for him at all anymore.

A sudden moment of clarity left me breathless. It was me. It had always been me.

I rolled my eyes and patiently chewed my gum. "Finally got it, do we?" I popped a loud bubble just to watch his feathers rustle, "Well, come along then. I imagine we have lots to discuss."

Really, I should have expected the punch. Ce la vie.