Red
Orange
The leaves
Cover the stones
Burying the buried in gold
My knees sink into the earth like spores
I brush aside the leaves with a tender heart, sun on my skin
I am so aware of my aliveness, and so aware of the dead beneath my feet, I can almost hear them
I read the names as I go, row by row, my eyes glaze over the numbers until I see a boy who lived not even one year before
coming to this place to rest
I spent many tender minutes clearing the leaves away, row by row, before I reached the stones I came here to see, I didn't
expect tears but they greet my eyes with a familiar ache, I spend some time sitting with them and pull a vase
out of the dirt, I fill it with flowers
The bouquet I brought is all white, I considered for a moment the number of petals, some of the daisies looked almost skeletal,
the roses pricked me on their way down into the cold steel vase, a beetle crawls across it and I am tempted to
ask it how the bones are doing down there
My husband stands beside me, a respectful distance, if he had the chance to meet them before they came here I know they
would have loved him, their first meeting is face-to-stone
The autumn air is strangely warm, and time stands still as I sit and tell them everything that has happened since
I tell them about school, work, Italy, anything and everything about my life
I want to hear them say they're proud
And though they're not here
I hear it
Wind blows
Leaves
Fall
