plastic

The crumbling grave markers poke their mossy stone heads above the dirt, their faces showing their age like my grandfather’s own weathered face. Those hands that toiled in the dirt, held chipmunks, birthed calves, slaughtered dinner – they touched life and they touched death. They knew the balance at the heart of continuity. Each inhale bringing an exhale.
But those flowers. No, those flowers won’t take in his breath, won’t continue the cycle. They are unnaturally vibrant against the decay of this cemetery. They are pompous, arrogant. Unsympathetically they flaunt their immortality.

Advertisements
plastic

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s