The earth is fresh upon your grave. I do not resent the rain as it falls gentle in my hair. I thank God that his tears fall with mine. Amid the mud and rivulets of tears, I place a tiny sprig of bleeding heart.
The sun shines soft on luscious grass. The sky is brilliant. The beauty hurts. The mound of earth that is your grave has shrunk and the temporary marker inscribed with your name and our messages of love is beginning to fade. I am silent and my thoughts are painful, and remembering is hard and forgetting is worse. I stoop and gently place an Iris on your grave.
The first full-blown pink roses are yours. All my life, as long as I live, pink roses will always be yours. The headstone looks new and stark and cold.
It’s blackberry season. I think about the times we picked blackberries together and how we didn’t mind the thorns for love of the berries. I think blackberries and life might have something in common. I wonder if I could put blackberry blossoms on your grave. I think that might be a little strange. I do it anyway.
I come with a handful of white daisies. They grew wild and free. I think if you, running through fields of splendor. The earth is dry and cracked so much like the feeling in my heart.
Goldenrod grows in profusion, so do black-eyed Susan’s and purple wildflowers. I gather a bouquet, it’s pretty but it looks a bit mixed up, Confused. I’m ok with that, my life feels much the same.
It’s getting colder. Flowers are scarce. I pluck a pansy from the pot beside the door. But I feel resentful. He is a bit too cheery.
It rains and rains and rains. I resent that too. Life was dreary enough before. I visit your grave empty-handed. There are no flowers now. Huge raindrops fall and life is hard and very, very ugly.
This time I have a sprig of holly. It seemed like the right thing. It grows abundant on the mountain and the crimson berries and vibrant green leaves are pretty against the snow.
It’s your birthday. I stop and buy a rose. A red one. Red is for love. I stop to place it on your headstone, and I smile to see that someone else has done the same. You are so loved.
Spring comes slowly. I pick an armful of daffodils and scatter them over your grave. I wish I would have thought to plant them here. I whisper a prayer, asking God to hold you close.
I wonder which tulips you would like better, Red or yellow? I feel afraid, trying to remember the sound of your voice. I’m afraid I’m forgetting…
I choose yellow. Yellow is for hope.
This time I hold a balloon. It holds a secret message just for you. I must let it go. Letting go is hard. But balloons tug and pull and when you let them go, they reach heights that I can only imagine. And so do you.