When I Die
Prologue
It's strange when you think about how life will carry on after you die. It's strange to imagine that people will cry over you, and that you'll have a funeral with all the people you ever knew there, talking about you like you're already some long forgotten memory.
My parents and friends will visit my gravestone and leave flowers. My mom will lie and say that she's fine whenever people ask her but she never really will be. People will talk about how sad and tragic it is and how I never have had the chance to fully experience life.. I'll have have a gratestone with a poem that makes you tear up whenever you read it.
That's how it always goes, for the most part. It happens like that for almost everybody. But it's just odd to think about when you're stood here right now, and your lungs are working and your heart is beating steadily in your chest. When your still around to think about it.
That's the reason I find myself in the local cemetery, staring at all the graves and trying to comprehend the fact that soon enough, I'll just be another memory like all the people buried here. I came because I wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to feel what the people left behind will feel after I'm gone.
It's not really working. The people who's whole life and death is written in just a few words on these stones don't mean anything to me. I can't feel anything more then mild empathy and a growing fear for my own fate.
Cemeterys aren't anything like they portray them in the movies. There's no creepy atmosphere or looming trees. They're just terribly sad. When you're in a cemetery, especially, I've learnt today, when you're by the childrens graves, you feel frozen in time. Like the memories that are here, of tragedy and sadness and laughter and good times, are just on a loop, repeating themselves over and over, making sure they're never completely forgotten.
Right now, I'm stood by the grave of a seven year old named Caylee Capreo. She died in 1985. A few minutes ago, a woman came by and swapped a bunch of flowers for another, arranging them so they were perfect and pretty. I suppose it must be her mom. She must come down pretty often, because the flowers she moved were still fresh. They couldn't have been there for more than a few days.
Is that what it's like? Does it hurt so much that people are still greaiving twenty years later? Is it true that parents never really get over the loss of their child?
Nearby Caylee's grave, there's a grave from late last year with dead flowers sprawled all over it, looking rather neglated. I can't decide which is more heartbreaking.
My parents and friends will visit my gravestone and leave flowers. My mom will lie and say that she's fine whenever people ask her but she never really will be. People will talk about how sad and tragic it is and how I never have had the chance to fully experience life.. I'll have have a gratestone with a poem that makes you tear up whenever you read it.
That's how it always goes, for the most part. It happens like that for almost everybody. But it's just odd to think about when you're stood here right now, and your lungs are working and your heart is beating steadily in your chest. When your still around to think about it.
That's the reason I find myself in the local cemetery, staring at all the graves and trying to comprehend the fact that soon enough, I'll just be another memory like all the people buried here. I came because I wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to feel what the people left behind will feel after I'm gone.
It's not really working. The people who's whole life and death is written in just a few words on these stones don't mean anything to me. I can't feel anything more then mild empathy and a growing fear for my own fate.
Cemeterys aren't anything like they portray them in the movies. There's no creepy atmosphere or looming trees. They're just terribly sad. When you're in a cemetery, especially, I've learnt today, when you're by the childrens graves, you feel frozen in time. Like the memories that are here, of tragedy and sadness and laughter and good times, are just on a loop, repeating themselves over and over, making sure they're never completely forgotten.
Right now, I'm stood by the grave of a seven year old named Caylee Capreo. She died in 1985. A few minutes ago, a woman came by and swapped a bunch of flowers for another, arranging them so they were perfect and pretty. I suppose it must be her mom. She must come down pretty often, because the flowers she moved were still fresh. They couldn't have been there for more than a few days.
Is that what it's like? Does it hurt so much that people are still greaiving twenty years later? Is it true that parents never really get over the loss of their child?
Nearby Caylee's grave, there's a grave from late last year with dead flowers sprawled all over it, looking rather neglated. I can't decide which is more heartbreaking.