My skirt ruffled in the wind.

One lone tear dropped off the end of my chin.

I stood, in the autumn cold by the flat gravestone.

Slow and numb, I bent over the cold granite and pressed my
cheek against the hard stone.

The sting of the cold burned and more tears piled up, flat
over the engraved name.

A rustle in
the leaves reminded me that I was still there. That I was still breathing.

It could’ve been me. It didn’t have to be that poor, poor
soul of a child.

He was an angel. God had sent him to me. And he was here,
for that short period to give a message to this world. That pure and innocence still
exists.

I could
swear I didn’t move from that position for the longest time. I grabbed at the
buried edges, pressed into the ground.

When I opened
my eyes, I saw the other rows of graves. Tons of them.

The sadness
that exists in this world. All those people. All that love.

I stood up.

My skirt ruffled in the wind.





(C) ELaine 2009