I wait at your gravestone. The pale grey marker, the earth’s bone, juts jaggedly from its flesh. The wind, a serpent in the air, slithers softly. It rustled the grass. The sky darkened. Dressed in a tapestry void of light in your honour. Flowers laid at your resting place were wilting, worn out by your absence. As the wind picked up, one flower seemed to have developed a pulse. Pumping faintly. rhythmically. Alive for a moment. I took a sip from the liquor bottle that I clutched close to my chest. I knew if you saw me like this, you’d be really mad.
I wondered if the earth embraced you when you were laid to rest. Jealousy rises. It had you forever close to its chest—something I would never experience again. Your arms will forever haunt me. A longing. A craving. For a ghost. My thumb brushed the pale groove where your ring used to rest on my hand. I’d buried it with you — or thought I had.
I sat down on a patch of grass. It was damp, but the least of my concerns. Fear rose in my chest. I am constantly aware of my mortality. I know I shouldn’t worry about facing it yet. But I do. You placed temporality on the tip of my tongue. No matter how much I bit my lips. I can’t get this taste to fade.
A glimmer caught my eye. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before; it lay right by your grave. A golden ring. I picked it up. It was cold to the touch. On the side of the band enraged in dirt-stained letters, were initials. CS. My initials. The earth had brought you back to me.
Bella Melardi is a poet and author. She writes about the political and personal.
KALEIDO ZINE 
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