I don't know if you lost a wife or a brother or a friend,
But the other graves have families or flowers at them and this,
The one you stand quietly at,
This only has you.
I do not know their story,
I do not know if those children lost a brother to the war,
Those parents a son,
Or that woman an abusive father.
But somehow, they do not seem sad,
Not the way you do.
They have each other,
While you are the men who stand alone.
Was there a house fire,
did your wife die from cancer,
was your father a police officer who got in the middle of a gang war?
And you may go home and inhale your sister's favorite perfume from her dresser,
Where it has sat untouched in her room for ten years.
I don't know your story.
I don't know if you were an innocent touched by death too young,
or if your grandmother waited to die until after taxes,
but you look devastated standing there with your hands shoved in your pockets and your head bowed.
This death made you aware of your own mortality.
At the very least, it made you realize who to hold dear and who you need not worry about.
It changed you.
And I am sorry for your loss.