At the Grave

Whenever I go see my grandpa's grave, it's like stepping into an old photo. The place is quiet, with big trees giving shade. It feels calm, like a secret hideout. Walking between the old stones, I feel both a bit sad and warm, missing my grandpa a lot.

There's this nice mix of flower smells and dirt when I get close. The wind plays with the leaves, making a soft sound. I find his spot easily - a simple stone with his picture engraved on the stone, his name with his date of birth and the date he passed away. The letters look serious, but my grandpa looks as sweet as his was.

Sitting by his grave, I touch the letters, sort of saying, "Yaya, I'm here." Yaya is the name all of us as grandchildren call him. The first time I came after he went away, I thought I'd feel super sad, but it's more like feeling a bit sad and thankful. Thankful for all the cool stuff he taught me while eating or chatting on the porch or at the cherry tree.

Grandpa wasn't a talkative guy, but you could get what he meant without lots of words. His eyes were full of stories about the old times, stories about being strong and loving hard. Sitting here, I can almost hear him telling those stories again.

The cemetery isn't a sad silence but it's like the past telling its stories quietly. Memories show up like flipping through an old photo album. There's laughter in his cozy living room and the smell of his famous apple pie in the air.

I bring his favourite black coffee sometimes. It's a bit bitter, just how he liked it. Pouring a cup and taking a sip, it's like sharing a laugh with him. It feels like he's right there with me, a friendly presence on my little adventure.

The moods change each time I come. Bees and crickets make a song in the background. Sometimes, it felt gloomy after the rainy season. At times, it felt dry because of the hot scorching son. At times it felt peaceful. The moods change just like me as well.

I often chat with him like he's still sitting on his lazy chair. I share my stories, ups, and downs. Even though I know he won't talk back, it's like he's still here, his hand on my shoulder. Although it’s just my imagination, I would embrace the moments.

One day, a visit in the rain stands out. It was a bit sad outside, like my heart that day. Raindrops tapped on my umbrella, and the sky matched my mood. Standing there, I felt how much he shaped me. The stormy weather felt like life's ups and downs. Underneath it all, there's this strong part, just like what he taught me. Standing there, wet but feeling free, it's like the rain washed away some of the sadness.

Since he left, the cemetery turned into a special place. It's like a time machine between the old days and now. Every visit feels like a small journey into my memories.

As I stand up to leave, I look back at his grave. Our connection goes beyond this place. The cemetery talks without words. It holds our stories, the love, the loss, and the smart things he said.

In the quiet of the cemetery, I carry our moments like a torch, passing it to the next generations. Every time I go to my grandpa's grave, it's a reminder that even if life is short, the people who shape us stay in our stories.

-NWDT- 10.12.2023