She gazes at the small headstone from the old tree, its huge branches and thick leaves forming a canopy, shielding her from the mid afternoon sun. “ Hello son”, she whispered, “ I bought you flowers”.
A funeral parade is in progress on the far side of the park. Someone else is burying a loved one today. The ceremony for the departed, the procession for the dead, a dignified way to depart this earth no matter the circumstances of death. Something that remained unchanged against the test of time.
Life goes on. We bury our dead, leave tokens as evidence of our visit, and then we walk on. No matter the tragedy, life goes on. She smooths the surface of the headstone with her hand. Some find it easy to move on. Some find it too painful even to look away. “I should have been there, and you should be the one bringing me flowers…”, she whispered. Only the old tree can hear her, and only the grass witnessed her tears. The wind probably felt her pain, as it caressed her cheeks. But even the wind is just a passerby.
The mourners on the other side of the park had scattered. The burial has been completed, and she wonders who among them left the cemetery barely alive this time.
Life goes on. Some resume life as if on temporary setback, limping, mildly bruised. Others however are completely changed, forever incomplete, ultimately broken. But yes, life goes on.