Resting place

Silence greets me at the wrought iron gates. It follows me as I walk through the mist, passing row upon row of well-groomed hedges and gold lettered stones. As I halt in front of your tomb, it stays with me long enough for me to muster the courage to speak. Then it recedes and from a distance hears me say, that I am sorry and wish things had gone differently. My voice breaks. Silence returns. It somehow bridges the gorge between us and lends you a voice. Piercing. Loud. Insisting. “Wake the hell up, and take out the trash.”