Like I don’t have better things to do than visit her stupid grave. And if they think I’m bringing a bundle of white lilies, they’ve got another thing coming. Not like she knows there are rotting flowers for her anyway—it’s just for show. Now we can stand around pretending we’ve done something noble by bringing cheap carnations to a carcass. She hated those fake dyed colors—don’t they know that? What makes me laugh even harder is standing over the grave as if we can have some deep, meaningful conversation. There is no talking to her (as if she can give us a reason why), no giving her gifts (so she can feel better about being dead), no comforting her (while she wilts away, cold and alone). They come to the grave for themselves. It makes me sick.
Bethanie Smith is an English Literature and Creative Writing student at Marylhurst University. She spends her time working in a library, volunteering at The Attic Institute, obsessing about the color purple, reading just that one extra page during inappropriate moments, and bakes banana muffins with her two brilliant and hysterical children.
Photo courtesy of Mauren Veras via Creative Commons / Flickr