gravestone - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
There was a cruel irony in the gravestone. It stood there with its youthful glow, strong, erect, ready to last a hundred years or more. Yet Hannah had already perished and begun her inevitable decay. It was something permanent to mark something so transient. Her flesh returns to the soil, the memories evaporate, her life extinguished. Her mourners flock to this cold stone as if they can halt all that, make permanent what never can be. It's something to visit when they cannot bear the separation any longer. It is something tangible and dependable when all else is in turmoil, our loved one has departed but the stone stays. I come when I feel like my foundations will crumble if I can't speak to her again, like an unsteady Jenga tower with someone tugging at a crucial brick. I know it's ridiculous, but somehow this slice of rock steadies me again and sends me back to my life. So until we are united in the here after, I will visit like every other soul who has lost a piece of themselves.
In the watery light of dawn the gravestone was as cold as its new owner. They would be together until even his atoms were leached away by the rain, then the stone would remain, battered by the elements. But for now it was a slab of black granite and stood out amid the regimented rows of grey, only broken occasionally by white. Liam bent down to read the gold lettering at eye level and lay the roses down, mom's favourites. Then he told her about his new wife and the wedding of the day before, of the honeymoon to come and the child they expected. He knew he was talking to bones, yet here was the only place he felt close enough to her to talk and have it mean something more than just thinking it. And just maybe she did hear him, maybe God carried his voice into the heavens. One day he would find out, but until then he had a life to live. He blew a kiss and told her "sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite," and he was gone over the dewy grass back to his car.
The gravestone was so weathered by the freeze-thaw of centuries that the engraving was to faint to be read. It had crumbled around the edges become colonized by lichen. The gardener had recently hacked back the ivy from around it. Selina wondered why. Not only was this poor soul returned to the earth entirely by now, so were the mourners that stood to watch the casket be buried. Now it was just a crude and broken ornament of death, something to remind the living they were on borrowed time.
The gravestone was as white as the crystalline snow. Under the steady glow of the full moon it seemed to have an aura of its own. Claire reached out,at first with cerise woollen fingers to touch the marble and run her fingers over the black engraved lettering, but she quickly removed the glove. Her bare fingers blanched in the wintry wind but she didn't care. Somehow the feel of the stone on her skin brought her some peace. It was beautiful, polished and smooth. It was the most expensive option in the catalogue and she had chosen it without hesitation. Her late father would never see it of course, he would never know, but she would. It was her final gift to the man who gave his all to raise her in a comfortable home rather than the squalor of his own beginnings. He had stuck around after her mother had fallen off the wagon and then fallen out of her life. Even now, in times of uncertainty, she fell back on the wisdom he had imparted; he was still her north, south, east and west.
The gravestone, once an expertly engraved monument to a beloved father, had crumbled with centuries of weathering. Ivy crept over it's face in a last insult to his memory, casting him deeper into the murky oblivion of unrecalled history. They might as well bulldoze the whole graveyard and build a supermarket on top for all the respect these decaying bones were afforded.
The gravestone had sunk into the soft soil giving it the appearance of shrinking. The engraved words, so weathered by a century of rain, sat just above the level of the ground cover plants that sprawled over the dirt.
"Gravestone" wasn't really the right word. It was more of a "grave-marker." Eustace leant in closer to inspect. He was quite sure it was a railway sleeper cut into a post with a smaller plank nailed over the top to fashion a cross.
Your life could never be marked by a gravestone, something so cold and immobile. Perhaps a tree with a wind-chime in the branches could do you more justice, or a simple song sung into the wind. What lies in the ground is only flesh and blood, that's never what you were. You were quite honestly the most beautiful spirit I ever knew. I pray that you soar with the eagles on lofty breezes and swim in oceans deep; I pray that you know the freedom this life could never give you; yet most of all I pray that when my time comes it is you that takes me by the hand and we go onwards to better times together.