the smell of Roses

He stood there, in silence. He looked at the bag of roses in his hand, and began to sprinkle them onto the grave. The wind whipped by him, picking up speed and then, momentum. Even though this place was by a busy road, he could hear nothing. Silence throughout. Sombre. Humbling. Alone we come, alone we leave. His mouth was dry. Parched. He began to get uncomfortable, he paced up and down, beside the grave. He turned to leave. Looking down. At his orange brown dress shoes, bright among the dullness of death. He turned back around, and went to the grave. When he had come here with people, his thoughts had been occupied with the act. Maintain a sombre face, show them you care. Now that the pretense was gone, his eyes began to burn. So he did feel something! A chill crept up his neck. The grave was the only one that was green, covered in a skin of grass. A few branches poked out of the ground, flowers perhaps would grow there soon? His eyes began to water, his heart felt light, and felt small. He was just an insignificant piece in a world that did not care. Everyone was. They thought they were sovereigns over the world. But the world did not even think to care about them, bacteria as they were over her skin. When they were gone, they would feed the other cretins, the ones that lived under her skin. No one would remember them. The earth would not stop spinning, not even falter. Deluded to think they meant anything. He had only come because he wanted to, not because of the man. He had come because he had work nearby. Who would come to his grave? No one. He fingered the change in his pocket, looking around, eyes not being able to bear the vision of his realization any longer. He blinked to wash out the tears still shining in his eyes, and looked for the man who would come and use a bucket to water the grave. He was not here today. He let go of the change in his pocket and began walking. As he walked away, he had a sudden thought. He checked the name on the grave. And the father’s. And he checked the date. Ok, this was the correct grave. His shoes made muffled sounds as he navigated his way out between the graves, being careful not to step on any single one, and then sharp sounds as they hit the stone pathway. His shoes felt heavy, his legs reluctant, unresponsive. His chest felt hollow. His head was dizzy. His eyes burned, still brimming with tears. His cheeks felt the sting of the whistling air.

Eyes down, he was sad this time around. This time around, he felt the loss. His heart called out to his deceased grandfather, and he sought guidance. He walked towards the exit, crumpling the empty bag that once held roses, in his fist. As he walked by the exit, he handed a note to the man in the chair who also sought help, albeit of a different kind. He placed the empty plastic bag next to the filled ones. He left the graveyard.