I sit at the hill, from here I can see her grave. Somewhere the family remembers her as they eat beside my extended kin, but it feels unjust to me.
So many stones in pretty rows, and yet her's I see clearly.
The wind whispers their condolence and offers me an apple.
A gust of wind strong enough to nudge fruit off the branch lands in my lap.
Red, glistening against the sun. The color is so alive I want to cry.
She can't eat anymore. It is fair of me to have this thing?
She can't know, she's cold, in the ground and now my sadness is being misdirected by hunger.
Am I a monster?
She, who bore my mother. Her pain brought her life to then give me mine.
If I were not to live, to go on, Her pain would have been for nothing.
I smile against the tears and take a bite.