I would my life were a movie, that on the anniversary of your death I could ride my bike, straight-backed, hair blowing in the manufactured wind, to your grave, with a perfect bouquet of flowers perched in my basket, or else zipped perilously into a backpack; and, arriving at your headstone, donate their impermanent beauty to your memory, placing them artistically beneath the singular, factual phrases that hold all remembrance of you in their cold stone embrace.
But your ashes rest beneath the waves: your tomb is the sea, the sky your eternal epitaph; and my heart has no physical place to fix my mourning to. And so I wander - for I must! I cannot tie myself to the earth when to the earth you are not tied, when the wind carries your voice and the rivers flow with what once was your laughter.
The whole world is such a very big grave for someone once so real as you.