The Sound of Eternity

Caringly I plant spring flowers at my mother's grave.
Like fragile china, I brush the sixth winter debris off dark marble stone.
Across the way, inexperienced mourners grasp, pray, grieve.
I absorb their sorrow. I understand the newness of death. It has only begun.
Some mourners stare at me, as though I intrude on their exclusive moment.
I wipe the dust off Patricia's black stone. A tall ship breaks free in granite for eternity.

The mourners talk in hushed voices. Loud is the sound of eternity.
Kids chase a butterfly in silence. It rests on Mrs. Winchell's grave.
I watch the mourners and plant red geraniums. I am whisked to a moment ,
when I bought the jet black stone.
Reality was a struggle; my true anguish had not begun.
A tall ship etched in stone, forced me to grieve.

There is no right or wrong way to grieve.
It takes a day. It can be merciless and last eternity.
I do not know if it is over. I surely knew it had begun.
A daughter knows the truth of a mother's grave,
and the sadness of her name upon a stone.
Like the mourners I watch, I was terrified for that moment.

In the circle of life, there is none more somber a moment.
The blazing red geraniums, so alive, help me not to grieve.
How will the new mourners react when they see their loved one's stone?
My mind wanders now. I ponder the concept of love for eternity.
I trust my mother's pledge of eternal love, even from the grave.
Said she would always love me, when her earth departure had begun.

The mourners linger across the way. Their new life minus a loved one has begun.
They cry and hug. They wrestle with the reality of this moment.
Silently I plant, and wish them comfort as they try to part from the grave.
I long to tell them it is alright to grieve.
Are they thinking about love and eternity?
When snow falls will they tend the stone?

The mourners look my way as I pull weeds from my mother's stone.
I wish these six years of visiting the cemetery had never begun.
Six years? Sometime is seems an eternity.
I love my mom. I would not have missed a moment.
I was not good at expressing my pain. I wish Mom had taught me how to grieve.
My daughters know how to express emotion. They will know what to do when I go to my grave.

I admire the black stone, sailing ship, red geraniums; I embrace a mother/daughter moment.
I finished what I had begun and today I do not feel the need to grieve.
The mourners file out of the quiet world of eternity, and glance once more toward the grave.