GRACE
Kneeling in front of his grave, I place my hand on the cool stone. “I miss you,” I whisper, hoping somehow he can hear me. It never gets easier. Somehow, grief becomes a routine part of life. It never leaves, you simply learn to live around it.
Looking around, my heart feels heavy seeing so many abandoned, moss-covered headstones. Where are their families? Tom and I have taken it in turns to visit our dad, every fortnight since the day he was buried. We bring flowers, we talk to him, and once a month we’ll bring a sponge and bottle of bleach to clean away any dirt nature has blown onto his stone.
“What are you doing here?” Tom’s voice doesn’t startle me. I heard his footsteps crunching the gravel as he approached.
“Do you ever just…miss him more some days?”
“Yeah. Yeah I do.”
