In the graveyard, the final letting go is writ

We have met a cemetery trust representative to decide on a marker on a hill in a town he was born into and where he died. His place is on the edge of a garden bed. It’s sheltered, and a park bench is opposite the stone where the plaque will be mounted. It’s close enough for our words to float onto his name without being blown away. Of course, no gale, no gust could do that. Distance now means nothing, being without measure. We hold each other close, tears well up and fall, and we nod, yes this is the place. He’d like it here. It’s a consolation of grief for parents.

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Written by Bourbiza Mohamed

I have 26 years of experience as a professional writer and editor and have been working as a full time freelancer since 2011. I am originally from Casablanca, Morocco, and I graduated from Qatar University with a degree in journalism. I have worked for newspapers, magazines, news agencies, websites. I speak fluent Arabic, French, English, Russian and Spanish.

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