12 - I Wear Black and Lay Flowers Down

At some point, birthdays began to end in tears instead of stomach aches from store-bought cake. At some point, getting older wasn’t something new and exciting but scary and undesirable. At some point, the world continued to move as I stood there watching it all in slow motion. Things come and go, and hellos and goodbyes are exchanged. We live until we die. So, here I stand in black and with flowers, looking down at my grave. Here, I stand and grieve the girl I used to be and all of the versions of myself I’ve grown out and away from. Here I stand and remember the parts of me that will soon be forgotten.

You are not here anymore, but it feels like you are and then some. I know I shouldn’t feel lighter, but this doesn’t feel right. Like a sack of sand hoisted upon my shoulders, I feel this weight pulling me towards the ground. Towards the dirt and worms that are probably eating you while I speak. Towards the wooden box you picked out, a bright blue because you said you liked those kinds of things, things like vanilla body mist and sugar lip tank tops. Things that reminded you of who you were, what you were: A sweet girl who just wanted to give.

I’m smiling at your funeral because I knew you better than anyone. Yes, you would have preferred the bright blue, not because it reminded you of the mall and Starbucks, but because it reminded you of the water. The water that brushed along the dock. The water that lapped against your dad’s boat, Sabbatical. The water that rocked you to sleep like your mother did years ago before you got too heavy.

I’m thinking about the blue water, its salt coating your lips and drying out your skin, and the way it remained in your mouth and hair for the rest of the day. I wonder if the salt still coats you now. Six feet below the damp dirt.

You are not here anymore, but it feels like you are. Do you taste the salt? Can you feel it between your fingertips? In your scalp? On your skin? I can.

Maybe I’ll drive down to the water and collect sea glass that reminds me of your eyes; that shade of blue has always stayed the same. I’ll grab a paper cup from the tennis courts and dip my hand into the bite of the December sound. Then I’ll sit by your grave and pour the contents over you and remind you that the salt never left. The salt was a part of you, and it always will be. And I still taste it.

I’ll sit in my graveyard and revisit the women who got me here. I’ll shed a few tears and leave flowers, but then I’ll stand up, brush off the dirt, and head home. Are they really gone? As I stand here, my heart beating, they will always be alive.