A grave is a scrambled attempt at planting the dead to see if they grow back. Throbbing with the ache to replace the empty space in the dirt with colour, we lay flowers down beside them, as if showing a young child how to behave. Time lumbers by and we visit them again with fresh flowers in hand, preparing to throw away the withered petals and curling stems leaning against the head stone like a crutch. A grave gives us routes by giving us something to visit when their house is moved into by someone else. A grave gives us a direction to look at when it feels like the hurt is just everywhere; embedded in the lines on our palms and inside the lids of our eyes. A grave is a pit to collapse in when you’ve been walking around choking on your pulsating heart. A grave is a means of telling the mountains that this mattered. And it hurt when it was over.
Photo by Scott Webb