There’s just something about a tombstone, isn’t there? A sense of finality. Closure. A dawning of realism that drives you down and pummels you into the ground deep enough so you don’t float away into your thoughts. The clearing of throats; the muffled sniffles; the mourning sobs; the sudden frowns and turning of heads when a cell phone explodes into a ringtone of “Living la Vida Loca”; the innocent children laughing and playing in the grass, unaware of what’s going on.
Even the wind seems to carry around a weight on its shoulders. Almost like it’s embarrassed of having to rush itself through the crowds and over their beloved buried ones. It carries a smell with it too. It tastes bitter and a little fruity. Maybe it’s trying to cheer us up. Maybe it knows what lies in the afterlife and it’s trying to tell us not to worry. Or perhaps it’s telling us nothing, because it’s just wind.
The air is always cold; the weather is always damp.
Everything just feels ruined.
The trail of cloaks and dresses sway with the force of the wind and, with it, the sorrow of some of those attending sometimes lifts up and leaves their bodies. If only for a few seconds.
It’s always hard to offer comfort, when one is also affected by loss.
For those affected the most, it doesn’t even begin to sink in until a while later. They still see the world in a haze, a shroud clouding every thought and every facet of reality; still in denial in front of death. Still thinking they’re going to see those hands reach up and ask for help. And they’ll come running. They’ll run down that ditch in a second and lift them up to the world; lift them up to safety. But, alas, it ends with a shovelful of dirt and a droplet of rain.
No wind, or rain, or ringtone can bring them down to earth like a tombstone.
Even the wind seems to carry around a weight on its shoulders. Almost like it’s embarrassed of having to rush itself through the crowds and over their beloved buried ones. It carries a smell with it too. It tastes bitter and a little fruity. Maybe it’s trying to cheer us up. Maybe it knows what lies in the afterlife and it’s trying to tell us not to worry. Or perhaps it’s telling us nothing, because it’s just wind.
The air is always cold; the weather is always damp.
Everything just feels ruined.
The trail of cloaks and dresses sway with the force of the wind and, with it, the sorrow of some of those attending sometimes lifts up and leaves their bodies. If only for a few seconds.
It’s always hard to offer comfort, when one is also affected by loss.
For those affected the most, it doesn’t even begin to sink in until a while later. They still see the world in a haze, a shroud clouding every thought and every facet of reality; still in denial in front of death. Still thinking they’re going to see those hands reach up and ask for help. And they’ll come running. They’ll run down that ditch in a second and lift them up to the world; lift them up to safety. But, alas, it ends with a shovelful of dirt and a droplet of rain.
No wind, or rain, or ringtone can bring them down to earth like a tombstone.
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