I’ve been thinking lately if I were gone, what would happen after? Who would be the last person to sit beside my grave? Would it be my best friend, She will cry the loudest, loathing me for leaving so fast. For not sharing anything with her. She’ll regret every moment of it. Would it be my brother and sister, the ones who stood with me through thick and thin? They will cry, and will remember forever. A wound that will never heal, a scar left behind, a moment they wished never happened. Then maybe it would be my Father, once the most hated man in my childhood. Too strict, too righteous. But he molded me into someone strong, someone respected. He will hold himself together, while breaking inside. Cry the quietest, this will haunt him even in his sleep. He’ll search for a company in solitude, finding comfort in booze. I was one of his most treasured that has been taken. And I will become his greatest defeat. But, no doubt it will be my Mother. There is no deeper wound than a mother burying her child. There are no words for that kind of pain like flesh torn open, or half of her soul being taken away. She will be there the longest, heart bursting, asking God why. She’ll blame herself over and over. Her grief will become her routine. After I’m gone, she will clean my untouched room, wash my clothes, and iron them as if I just left them there. No occasion will ever feel the same No birthdays, no Christmas, no New Year. Every day becomes dim. She will remember every details of my face, my first cry, my first word, and the silence after I am gone. She will stay at my wake, and at my burial, the last to leave, mourning, contemplating, angry at the world and mostly at herself. ©herdarkthoughts🦋