Good mourning from 1000 CUTS by INFECTED SENSES

Helen’s footsteps were the only sound in the empty cemetery, apart from the wind rustling dead leaves along the path. She visited every morning, always with flowers, always with tea. It wasn’t just her husband’s grave she visited; it was all the others too. Rows upon rows of forgotten names, lives that had crumbled into the earth. She sat among them, whispering to the stones, reading them poetry as though the dead needed comfort. She wasn’t sure who she was mourning anymore—her husband, or the piece of herself that had died when he left. Good mourning, she thought, was just another way of saying goodbye without ever leaving.

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