Butterfly at the Grave

I stare sadly at the gravestone, its golden letters faded from years of sun wind and rain. It looks deserted and unloved, but it's not, the pots are always full of fresh flowers, cards, letters and notes.

Even though the death occured over ten years ago the weekly visits had never stopped, pink roses, red, yellow, all the colours under the sun for the girl who was loved and is still missed so much.

Her parents spend hours sitting there talking to her, telling her stories of how her friends have grown up, got married, had children of their own. They tell of family news, Uncle Joe has started his own business, Nanna won at bingo. All the things this girl never got to see.

They grieve for her terribly. For them the pain never stopped. I can see them there now tears prickling their ageing eyes. The hurt has never stopped, their daughter, why her? why them?

I feel a pull of sadness as I watch them cling onto each other, the pain is etched into their faces, I can almost feel the knots in their stomachs and the burn in their hearts. There's nothing I can do to help them, though I so want to.

My mind wanders back to the day she died, the police knocking the door, grim somber faces as they had to break the devastating news that their daughter had been taken away from them, killed horrificaly by a drugged up scum bag who had mistaken her for someone else.

He'd beaten her to death in the street with a hammer so badly she had had to be identified by dental records. The killer had shown absolutley no remorse to the crime simply stating she looked like someone who owed him money.

Hearing that in court had cut through both her parents hearts like a knife, to dismiss their daughters life so cold heartadly was just too much to bear.

Stupidly they had been clinging onto the hope that the killer would be in floods of tears begging for their forgivness, perhaps nearly as broken as them. That wouldn't have brought her back but it would have eased the pain ever so slightly. To hear their daughters life was nothing to him nearly sent them over the edge.

They both became eneveloped in grief, stopped work, stopped going out and only saw friends and family if forced to. To them, that night, life had ended. they both agreed that the only reason to live now was waiting to die.

I watch them from a distance and wish I could reach out to help them, it makes me sad that they never recovered, that the clock stopped that night and never started again. I know no one gets over death easily but I was hoping with time hearts would've healed a bit. These haven't.

I want to go closer, hold them, comfort them, but I can't. I spend a lot of time at this grave, watching, listening, wishing.

I am the only person who could help them, make it all better, make the pain go away. But there's nothing I can do, as this is my grave, I was the girl who got killed, their beloved daughter.

They see me at this grave all the time but they don't know it's me, as now I am just a butterfly, circling this grave, trying to reach them. I can't.