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.