dear grace,
it's been a year. i write this sitting in front of your grave, ripping the grass from the ground and running the cool dirt through my fingers.
i think the things we remember most about our dead loved ones is how they acted. with my little sister, she was always shy yet curious, and you, depressed but brave.
i remember the way her dark hair blew around her face and the way she pouted when she didn't get her way. i remember the way her hands would turn white when she lay in the hospital bed...
and you, grace?
i don't need to remember you, because you'll always be here beside me, teasing me, pushing me to make the right decisions.
i'll always try and grab for your hand, but it isn't physically there. that's probably the hardest thing.
sometimes i think i see you, wrapped in my leather jacket, your hair swept up into a bun and your face completely void of makeup.
it is then that i realize how truly beautiful you are, were, and will be, and how beautiful the world we have is.
-wren.
YOU ARE READING
leather jackets.
Teen Fiction| you were standing all alone in that leather jacket of yours that smells like cigarettes and moth balls. you still wear it, even though it's tattered and old. i think it looks lovely on you. |
