in the car sat next to my mother sweating along to the country songs on the radio my toenails scrape against the bottoms of my shoes as i scuff the them against the worn carpeting the car smells like very berry hibiscus and black coffee that reminds me of a place before they were gone
at the cemetery it feels wrong to be alive and i make sure not to step directly onto the headstones because the horror movies always warn me of hands coming up through the dirt
but i can’t help but to think of how nice it would be to be held by my great grama one last time even if i got dirt in my eyes it would be nice to see her again
i’m sorry that i didn’t go near her coffin i remember his funeral too though i don’t know how many years ago it happened to be i cried the hardest and i remember at her funeral how my mom and sister were talking about how proud they were that neither of them cried like i did and i felt small and weak and childish but also painfully human
i find that it is easier to think of the cemetery as more of a library for the dead because most of them are as old as the dewey decimal system and i’m just pawing through the card catalogs looking for a hand to hold
your parents are under the c category c for classen c for caring c for compassion c for clarity c for cherished memories c for come back