No birds fly in the rain
The grass is probably very green, clipped low to show the flat bronze memorials and I can picture it so I don’t have to visit. There is a nice tree behind where the Chinese ginger jar resides with her cremated remains sealed tight within. Standing in my sudden and unfamiliar grief 14 years ago on an unseasonably warm December afternoon I thought it would be nice to be buried near that tree; in a quiet corner with the most of the rest of our family. Her mother, her father, grandparents and aunts and uncles I don’t know scattered around the hills above where she lies there silent and forever.
I don’t have to visit but rainy days make me wistful for the comfort it promised to extend to me when I choose it 14 years ago-the burial site for my mother.
I don’t have to visit I can just imagine my heels sinking in the mud, the hesitation of finding the landmarks to find the site, that feeling in my stomach that reaches my throat like burning poison stuffed into a sock. My heart pounds into an empty chest that should be filled with the conflicting love and guilt but is only filled with anger and loneliness.
I think visiting in the rain seems more suitable as it would be absent of the happy song of busy spring birds and it would be more comforting in the silence.
Saying “I” in every sentence subconsciously signifies my attempt to appear more important than I really am. I, really, think its useless.
My grief isn’t useless, its a very hard worker.