i am standing in the graveyard looking at a tree i love.
it’s 7pm in mid september, and the setting sun is trying to send the clouded sky into burning embers.
i stand on a road of sorts. unlike most other paths, it is only paved in two small streaks where a car’s wheels would drive, sometimes reclaimed by the grass.
the tree’s leaves are a deep green in the sky that just recently cried.
i walk under it, the shadow dimming the world.
metal plays in my ears, loud enough to enjoy, quiet enough to hear the angry blue jays and the curious crows.
the sky grows incrementally darker. i walk down the track path until i come to a fully paved one, turn right, and intend on exiting the graveyard, wander through the ymca parking lot, sneak through a hole in the fence, and make my way back home.
on the path, i am interrupted by an entire geranium plant left sideways, roots bare and dripping dirt, freshly ripped from a headstone. i frown. the grave it came from is not far. i wonder. the red petals aren’t wilted at all. its story is fresh.
the plant is heavier than i thought it'd be, its stems cool. the headstone waits, the etched name and date still.
i squat, dig a hand into the disturbed earth it’d clearly come from. the dirt runs through my fingers and climbs under my nails as i scoop a hole. place the flowers. fill in the space around it, making sure it stands upright.
it looks like it might survive the shock. i hope it does. i stand, knees cracking, dust my hands, and leave.
how many people would have replanted those?
how many people would do it at the headstone of a stranger who died 12 years ago?
the thoughts feel like someone else’s. maybe they are.
the world continues to darken, this time foreshadowing more rain. good, i hope it helps the flowers settle.