my grave — no one would; no one will
Funny how all I ever thought about these past few days of summer is death. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to end my life, but the thought of dying one day still haunts the very corners of my mind. One day, from the earth our living bodies came, to the earth our dying bodies return.
While studying for my upcoming college admissions exam, I have a creative spark to write a poem entitled, “no one would; no one will.” As I wrote the poem, the more my soul poured itself onto it, and the more my very heart started to ache. The first two lines of my poem went like this:
I ask myself, “who would sit down for hours
On the perfectly manicured lawn of my grave?”
The question that started my poem haunted me, and it made me think of a person that would actually have a conversation of my lifeless body under six feet of earth. Then it hit me — no one would. Perhaps my parents, after grieving the loss of their child, would eventually stop visiting my grave. My friends are out of the question because the relationship I had with them always felt one-sided. With the realization that no one will, I wrote the final lines of my poem.
“No one,” my consciousness answered for me.
“No one ever loved you for who you are,
And your grave will never be perfectly manicured —
Weeds will start to sprout and your name
Will slowly vanish from the tombstone
Because no one cared for you. No one.” He added.
No one ever cared for me, no one. And so, what the line said, weeds will soon overrun the lot where my body was buried. The flowers offered will soon wilt, becoming lifeless like me. The candles lit near my tombstone will slowly melt into it and the engravings will be filled with wax. My name will slowly vanish — on my tombstone and the hearts of the people I cared for.
Yet, at the very least, I’ll die alone, and become one of the very lost souls that wanders the earth in search of afterlife. However, before that, I’ll watch my body decompose — worms that entered my cheap wooden casket will soon feast my frail body, leaving only the bones as a souvenir for the earth to keep. One day, I’ll die, and the grave is my new home, and no one would visit me — no one would; no one will.
