The Beauty of Death

The crisp, autumn air sent chills down my spine as I took my cup of fresh hot chocolate and sat down on my porch. I watched as the gold and auburn leaves fell gracefully onto the ground. I always loved watching the autumn leaves; It served as a reminder that there’s a certain beauty in death. The green leaves that had once provided an awe inspiring look for the trees now found their own time to shine. 

The leaves reminded me of her in that way.

It was a different time when we met in our college years, both of us young and naive. I was always jealous of her auburn hair and blue eyes, although whenever I expressed my concerns, she would simply take my face in her hands and promise me my beauty was unmatchable. 

I knew back then I was in love with her, every aspect of her. I loved the way she would never let me leave the dorms without a jacket, in case I got cold. I loved the way she looked at me anytime she told a joke, even in large crowds in which I was just another bland, average face. I loved the way she took my hands anytime she told me a secret, and how she would smile when I promised I wouldn’t tell.

I loved the time we spent all night talking, as she held me in her arms. I loved the time she took me stargazing, and told me despite sitting under the millions of trillions of stars, she couldn’t help but focus on me. I loved the time I overheard her talking to her friend about moments we had spent together, and how she wanted me to marry her. I could very easily and very proudly say she was the one for me.

However, I hated when she asked me out, and I couldn’t bring myself to say yes out of fear of my family’s judgment. I hated when we kissed, and I felt myself falling, that I felt I had no choice but to pull myself away. I hated how our classmates would scream slurs at her, simply because society didn’t understand our love. I hated having to watch her cry, because her family had disowned her. I hated having to tend to her black eye, because she got her ass beat by some close-minded homophobes. I hated watching her carry an unspoken shame around with her.

I hated running outside and finding her bruised, beaten, and unconscious body out on the leaf-covered pavement. I hated screaming her name, and getting no response. I hated sitting next to her body, and having the leaves make cracking sounds with each and every one of my movements. I hated the harsh and unkind ambulance lights.

I hated going to her grave each and every day, and holding onto the hope that it was all an awful prank; that she would jump out from behind a tree, and we would run away to some progressive town and spend the rest of our days. I hated realizing that that isn’t what was going to happen. 

I hated how the news only focused on how she deserved it. I hated how her killers got off with no charges, because they were ‘protecting the city’. I hated how everyone in the halls would whisper about the ‘dead homo’. 

Most of all, I hate that I could’ve spent the last 50 years with her. I hate that she didn’t hold on for me, and I hate myself for not finding her sooner.

After an afternoon of reminiscing, I walked down to the cemetery that’s about a block from my little log cabin home. As I made my way through the cemetery with my walker, I noticed the leaves once again. The bright shades of red reminded me of her auburn hair. I wish she died as beautifully as the leaves did.

I made my way to the tiny little unnamed headstone behind the patchy bushes, having to use my hand to guard the twigs from poking into my sides. It didn’t do much, as I had to keep a hand on my walker, but I figured it was still worth a shot.

After the whole bush ordeal, I had finally made it to where she rests. Although she never got her name on her headstone (per her family’s request, to serve as a reminder to the world of what a sinner she was), She still had the most beautiful burial site. It was very ugly in the 70’s when she had passed, but upon the same field that showed no signs of life besides the dried, crunchy grass and trees that beared no leaves, a beautiful meadow had begun to grow. A bright array of flowers grew around her plot; red, purple, gold, yellow, blue, any color you can name. 

A tribute that she had deserved.

As I looked out upon the meadow for the first time in 50 years, I threw my walker to the side and collapsed to the ground. Soft sighs left my throat as I held back the emotions I’ve been trying-oh-so hard to push down, suddenly come up. I felt love that I felt for her, somehow all at once. I felt the guilt I felt over her death, for she died because of me. I felt the grief, and the denial, and the acceptance, all simultaneously. 

I reached around for my walker, and finally got up and made my way over. It took awhile for me to move the colorful plantation out of the way to actually see the unmaintained headstone, but when I did, I knew she’d be proud of me. I knew her auburn hair and blue eyes were looking at me from some form of afterlife, waiting for me to join her; Then, we’ll live the rest of infinity in pure perfection together. We could live on a beach, or in the woods, or the city, or someplace that mere mortals cannot comprehend. One thing I know for sure though, is I’ll go wherever she wants to.

I love her; now and forever.