By the time it is my turn to step forward with the flower, my fingers have gone numb.
The dress clings to my skin—black from collar to hem, stiff and unforgiving. Every other body around me is dressed the same way, as if grief has a uniform. Black suits. Black veils. Black shoes sinking slightly into damp earth. Even the sky seems to have agreed, hanging low and grey above the cemetery.
The flower in my hand is white.
Too white.
Fragile. Innocent. The kind of flower offered when words are no longer enough—when the living have exhausted every apology they are allowed to say. I have held it through the prayers, through the murmured verses beneath the temporary canopy, through the quiet sobs that rise and fall like waves around me.
Now the moment has arrived.
The coffin waits ahead, polished and still, solid wood gleaming faintly under filtered daylight. Beside it rests Daniel's photograph. His smile is there—wide, alive, untouched by death. It feels cruel that the picture looks warmer than the body beneath it.
My steps are slow as I approach. Too slow. Every eye seems to follow me, though no one says my name. I stand in grief, lowering the flower onto the coffin, letting my fingers linger against the wood longer than necessary.
As if touch might undo everything.
*I'm sorry, I say silently.
Not just for losing him.
But for breathing while he doesn't.
For standing here in black while he lies there in silence.
For a death he never deserved.
A sound rips through the air—sharp, raw, animal.
Daniel's mother.
The cry folds her body inward as if grief has finally broken her spine. Her wrapper loosens as she collapses, hands clawing at nothing. She calls his name the way only a mother can—stretching it, tearing it apart, trying to pull him back with sound alone.
"My son—oh God—my son…"
"My only son!"
His sisters rush to her. One grips her shoulders. Another drops to her knees, sobbing openly now. The careful order of the burial cracks, and grief spills everywhere.
Something inside me shifts.
Guilt.
Hot. Sudden. Burning.
My feet move before I decide to follow them. I join the cluster around her, lowering myself beside her trembling body. My hand finds her back, feeling the fragile rise and fall of her breath beneath my palm.
"Take heart, Mama," someone says softly.
"God knows best," another adds.
"He is resting now."
The words drift through the air like smoke—soft, well‑intended, empty.
She looks up suddenly.
Her eyes meet mine.
There is no accusation in her eyes.
No suspicion.
Just loss.
Pure. Crushing. Blameless.
And that destroys me far more than anger ever could.
"I was with him just last week," she sobs. "He was fine. He was laughing. He promised he would come back this weekend."
My throat tightens.
I know, I want to say.
I know how alive he was.
But I say nothing.
I nod. I murmur comfort I don't believe in. My hand remains steady on her back while something inside my chest screams and fractures.
If grief were a debt, she has paid too much.
And I have paid nothing at all.
When the prayers resume, the atmosphere thickens. The priest speaks of resurrection. Of eternal rest. Of crowns laid up in heaven. Soft "amens" respond from the crowd.
Each one lands heavily against my ribs.
Outside the temporary structure, the cemetery air is thick with damp earth and incense. The coffin is lifted carefully by the men, reverently, as though gentleness might reverse the inevitable. I walk behind it with some others, steps measured, face carefully composed.
Black dress.
Black shoes.
Black thoughts.
The grave waits.
Open. Dark. Patient.
The final prayer is spoken. The priest commits Daniel's soul to God. His voice is steady. Practiced. Certain.
Mine would not be.
The ropes creak softly as the coffin is lowered, a sound so ordinary it feels cruel. His mother cries out again, collapsing fully into her helpless daughters' arms. The earth swallows sound as it swallows wood.
When soil begins to fall, something final settles in the air.
Finished.
Some people turn to me afterward.
"You're strong."
"May God comfort you."
"Time heals."
Each sentence lands like a quiet accusation.
Because strength has nothing to do with this.
And time has never fixed anything for me.
I nod. I thank them. I accept their words like gifts I have no right to carry.
As I walk away from the grave, my legs tremble—not from sorrow alone, but from the certainty wrapping itself tightly around my spine.
Everyone here will go home tonight.
The mother will mourn.
The sisters will ache.
The world will continue.
And I will add another name to the list I never write down, and this time that of an only son.
By the time I reach my car, my hands rest uselessly in my lap, black sleeves brushing against my skin.
"I didn't bargain for this, none of them deserved it" I whisper.
But the earth has already closed.
And something unseen—something silent, has already claimed another victory.
That is when I know...
"Whatever fate it was, I would not allow it another victory."