She's The Only One

      She goes back everytime she's home. She parks the truck, or car, or station wagon. She counts to eight. Her lungs slowly fill with air. She holds it there, trapped in her body. She holds her breath for ten seconds. She exhales fast. She can't trap anything.
      The keys always jingle in her pocket. The cold metal digs into her thigh. The pain forces the understanding that she's awake, that she's not trapped in some nightmare.
      The ground is always uneven. From the street it looks flat and monotonous. But it's not. How can a place holding so many different people possibly be even?
      She walks along without thinking. She visits this place at least once a month. It depends how often she comes home. She always finds the time. Always. Even now she's trapped.
      Her legs stop moving. She looks to her right and sighs as she turns. Her knees bend. Her hand supports her slow descent. She sits on the cool ground. Her legs press against her chest. Her chin rests on her knees. Her hands are locked together against her shins. She becomes a small ball. At least once every four weeks, she becomes the small ball.
      She sits there on the cool mid-summer grass. She's sat there on the mid-autumn's dead leaves. She's sat there on the mid-spring's newborn flowers. She's sat there in the mid-winter's frigid snow.
      It's the winter the prefers. In the winter everything's dead. Sleeping, her mother says. But she knows that everything's dead in the winter. Especially in this place. Even she's dead in the winter in this place.
      She pulls her legs closer. The summer is cold here. Everything is cold here.
      Her eyes read the engravement before her. The letters, digits, symbols come together. Their individuality is lost to logic, which strings them together. Words form in her mind. Meaning forms in her mind. Memories form in her mind. Thoughts die in her mind.
      She reads from the base up.
      '1980-2003'
      'Keith Poikayer'
      There aren't any fancy symbols or pictures. No kind and loving words of memoriam. Just a name. With a fragment of time etched in stone.
      They could have wrote a lot of things. They wanted to write a lot of things.
      'Son. Friend. Brother.'
      'Too young and too soon.'
      'We will always love you.'
      'Be with God, my darling boy.'
      She asked that something be written. She had no right to ask. But she asked. Even if everyone knew it wasn't her place.
      'Be at peace.'
      Three words. They could have meant anything to anyone.
      She had one meaning in mind. His was a tortured soul. She shouldn't have loved him as much as she did. But who can decide something like that? She loved him. She feared him. She pitied him. She prayed for him.
      Now she visits him. She comes alone. She would never have chosen to be alone with him before. Now she has to. She can't bring anyone with her. This is how it was in the beginning. They would sit together in silence. Even now she doesn't say anything. It's still not her place to ask him anything. It's still not her place.
      She knows they visit their son on Sundays. They tower above the ground in silence. She knows they visit their brother on Saturdays. They crouch and touch the markings representing the man she loved.
      She's the only one who sits on the earth. She's the only one who doesn't shed tears anymore. She's the only one who knows how much he loves the silence.
      When she leaves, she's the only one who takes a final look at the gravestone. She's the only who still looks back. She's the only who looks back and still feels trapped. Someday she'll be the only who won't come back to this place. Someday.
      But not next month. Or the one after that. Or even the one after that. For now, she has too many thoughts about him. He was a victim, like she was. Only he'll always be a victim. She won't. And she feels bad for that. She's the only who feels bad for that.