I am cold. I am hard. I am etched with words that loved ones want to remember forever. During the day I smell daisies, peonies, and roses. During the night, all I smell is the rotting earth. The night, as still as death, gives me substance. I feel the chill in my bones, I see the gloomy fog, I witness the visitors who want to be hidden. The only sound I hear is the clink, clink; of the spade when it hits the rocks.
I stand here, a declaration , in memory and evidence, I am a gravestone.