Every night, the same grave visited. Every night, new tears shed.
Why did you have to die? It should have been me. You were better than me.
You always have been. I didn't realize you were gone until it was too late.
The broken window and the blood...
Willow, you're shirt...
I tried to bring you back, really, I did, but I couldn't. You died, and I was helpless. There was nothing I could do. So now I visit your grave.
The old flowers had turned brown and were rotting, so I brought new ones, daisies, the flowers you always liked best. Another tear rolls down my cheek.
I kneel before your grave, digging my fingers into the cold dirt, hardly feeling it between my numb fingers. I pull up the brown flowers and push them aside.
You're under there, and you will stay down there forever, because I can't bring you back. Nothing can bring you back. Six feet away from me. So far away from me.
I push my cold fingers down further into the ground. Maybe if I pushed my hands down far enough, maybe I could feel you. Maybe, if I lay here, on your grave, with my ear pressed to the ground, my tears seeping into the earth, maybe I could hear you. Hear your whispers and your dreams. God, Tara, I miss you so much. I miss your smile and your voice. I miss your eyes, the way you looked at me. No one ever looked at me like that. No one ever made me feel the way you did.
I pull up handfuls of dirt, I pull up handfuls of loss. I push my hands back into the ground and bring out more of what separates me from you. This horrible sickness has welled up inside me. It is the sickness of grief. The sickness of knowing that I found the one, my one, and knowing that I let that one slip away. The tears are coming faster now.
I carefully place the new daisies into the ground. I carefully set the cheerful plant into the hole of my despair. I push the dirt in around the flowers. I surround this small, temporary happiness, with the loss and grief that I took from your grave. The daisies don't complain, they don't seem to mind really.
I stand back to admire my work. The flowers seem so wrong, so out of place, and yet, they seem somehow right. I remember how much you liked flowers. I hope you like these. I wipe the tears from my eyes.
I touch the stone which holds your name, trace the letters there. I leave a dirty handprint behind.
Goodbye Tara, I miss you so much.
Willow, you're shirt...
I tried to bring you back, really, I did, but I couldn't. You died, and I was helpless. There was nothing I could do. So now I visit your grave.
The old flowers had turned brown and were rotting, so I brought new ones, daisies, the flowers you always liked best. Another tear rolls down my cheek.
I kneel before your grave, digging my fingers into the cold dirt, hardly feeling it between my numb fingers. I pull up the brown flowers and push them aside.
You're under there, and you will stay down there forever, because I can't bring you back. Nothing can bring you back. Six feet away from me. So far away from me.
I push my cold fingers down further into the ground. Maybe if I pushed my hands down far enough, maybe I could feel you. Maybe, if I lay here, on your grave, with my ear pressed to the ground, my tears seeping into the earth, maybe I could hear you. Hear your whispers and your dreams. God, Tara, I miss you so much. I miss your smile and your voice. I miss your eyes, the way you looked at me. No one ever looked at me like that. No one ever made me feel the way you did.
I pull up handfuls of dirt, I pull up handfuls of loss. I push my hands back into the ground and bring out more of what separates me from you. This horrible sickness has welled up inside me. It is the sickness of grief. The sickness of knowing that I found the one, my one, and knowing that I let that one slip away. The tears are coming faster now.
I carefully place the new daisies into the ground. I carefully set the cheerful plant into the hole of my despair. I push the dirt in around the flowers. I surround this small, temporary happiness, with the loss and grief that I took from your grave. The daisies don't complain, they don't seem to mind really.
I stand back to admire my work. The flowers seem so wrong, so out of place, and yet, they seem somehow right. I remember how much you liked flowers. I hope you like these. I wipe the tears from my eyes.
I touch the stone which holds your name, trace the letters there. I leave a dirty handprint behind.
Goodbye Tara, I miss you so much.