Your mom visits every morning,

at the same time, like clockwork.

Maybe it’s convenience—

the graveyard just so happens

to be ten minutes from her house,

five minutes from the grocery store.

Or maybe, she just wants to talk to you.

She never brings flowers;

she can’t stand the idea of replacing them.

So she brings only herself,

and her tears.

Oh, how she cries at your grave.

If someone did the math,

she’s shed more tears over you

than anything else.

Your sister never leaves her car.

She has two kids—

a niece and nephew you’ve never met,

but they know your name;

they know you.

Sometimes she drives to your grave

during her lunch break,

or at midnight when she can’t sleep.

She sits there, engine running,

telling herself this time,

this time she’ll get out,

this time she’ll say something.

But she never does.

She doesn’t bring flowers either,

just her tears.

Oh, how she cries at your grave.

Your brother visits when he can.

He doesn’t believe in death.

He still calls your number,

sure you’ll pick up.

He still sees things that remind him of you,

still buys extra food on Sundays—

remember when you ate together?—

and forces himself to eat it all.

If you asked him,

he’d say you’re still alive.

Then he’d remember the funeral,

and he’d visit you.

He never brings flowers,

but he brings his tears.

Oh, how he cries at your grave.

Your dad doesn’t know you’re dead.

No one told him,

and he never bothered to ask.

He’s noticed the phone’s been quieter,

and he has a few extra dollars

at the end of the week.

He considers that a good thing.

He never visits your grave,

so of course he never brought flowers.

And of course,

he hasn’t cried.

But in his dreams,

he sees himself weeping over

a grave without a name.

He thinks it’s yours,

but he likes not knowing.

These tears at your grave,

do you hear them?

They’re louder than any sound

you’ll ever know.