I am the silent . . .

. . . of this cemetery, the lone living among the dead. Does the body have presence after the spirit has moved on? Is this ground beneath my living feet hallowed because their physical presence rests there? Or is it hallowed only in our memories of how it felt to be in her presence? Even when she was so ill she let me know that she appreciated me being there. Her presence told me that she loved me.

People said they felt her presence after she departed this earthly realm. I didn't.

Now I cry out, silently, here. Does she know that I am sitting near her final resting spot?

I am a person of words who probably should walk in silence.

I want to ask her though: how do I get to where you are? Do you see how small and weak I am, sitting over here by Max's grave? According to his headstone, he lived only a part of a day. I never met him and yet I see his parents and grandparents in my mind encircling his small casket on the day they, too, had to formally say goodbye to someone they loved.

I am the silent of one who has nothing left to speak. A runner cuts through the quiet of this morning--the motions and sounds of being awake.

I cry and I know that the tears don't change anything. They don't even change me.

I am the silent of the cold air that feels as if it could freeze my tears. Why not? The rest of me is frozen already.