My name… it’s derived from a plant’s name, I think. Well, in any case, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. The nights have grown colder, as of late, have they not? Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Winter is coming, after all; it will only get colder and colder with each rise and set of the sun as the moon chases it across the sky.
Around here, the grass grows wild. You can barely see the names inscribed on the metal plates set in the ground -- unless the families or friends of the one to whom the name belongs are kind enough to clear the weeds away. The stone monuments are tall enough that they're untouched, like the one I stand in front of. Were it springtime, the grass would be nice. It's nice when it rains, the feel of the dew-coated grass between your toes. Tonight, though, the grass is dry. It crunches under my feet.
There's a reason for it, you know, why I'm here. It's not as though I walk around a graveyard because I want to. I mean, it's cold, isn't it? When the wind blows, it's definitely cold. No, I'm here because he is here and because I cannot sleep where he is not.
To say that I have trouble sleeping is a severe understatement. I cannot sleep at all. It's impossible. The ground is more comfortable than my bed at home, perhaps because I can imagine that I can hear his heart beating through six feet of dirt and stone. It's not, of course, but I can imagine. His heart is my heart, after all.
When I wake up -- no, that’s not right: a person who cannot sleep cannot wake up. When I open my eyes, it is morning, and there are people wandering the grassy hill. I stand and watch as they go about their business. Some are so far away, they look like ants. Some carry bouquets of flowers in their arms, set them down on the ground or place them in the vases provided. I hear their voices as they linger in front of tombstones or metal plates set in the ground. It's like they think that ashes have ears. And even if they did, it's not like it's an easy feat, hearing things when you're buried under ground.
There is one girl, wearing a white hat, who pauses in front of me. She has clear blue eyes, even brighter than the satin ribbon tied at the end of her golden plait. A smile tugs at her lips, and I smile in return as it’s only proper, but before I can greet her, she lifts her arm to point at something in the sky. I look up — it’s just a white egret — and when I look down, she is gone.
I sigh and look away.
People, like that girl, always seem to stare through me rather than at me, but that suits me just fine. It would be tedious if everyone who stopped by to pay their respects also stopped to question me. I’m always here, aren’t I?
Curious glances, I think, will also get very old, very fast.
I hate to imagine what will happen if word of my presence here reaches my family. It's inevitable, I suppose, as there's only so long that a pillow under the bedspread can fool a person. I shall deal with the consequences when the time comes. For now, though, I can only lie on the ground, reach out, and brush my fingers through the grass as though it is his hair.
I've been here so long, I've lost track of the days.
Even so, I will never move on.
One does not simply turn her back on love.
Such a thing is impossible.
My heart, it...