The pictures were still in the house that had burned to the ground where the soil was salted but the wildflowers still grew deformed. A different kind of beauty, a different brand of grace. And the river runs parallel to his house where I can still hear him scream. And I walk by trying to be okay choking back tears and some screams of my own when I look down and see the fish in the river. A different kind of beauty, a different brand of grace. Quietly moving through a body of water that gladly carries them. At peace just to find their way upstream and the sky turned gray as I walked to the cemetery. First to see Philip. I left him the wildflowers from the backyard because I knew he would love them. And I felt him with me. His arms around me as we felt it all together And tried to be a little less alone. And I prayed on the ground next to him, I prayed to see him again and tell him what I really wanted to say. Next I went to see Matthew. And I left him a letter to tell him I loved him. And this time the ground felt empty and lifeless as if he couldn't hear me when I spoke to him but I spoke anyways. And I walked down the aisle looking at the loss, and slowly let epitaphs turn to reflections where I was forced to confront myself through the headstone of a grave marked for me. I spoke to myself "this is not how my story is going to end." And I walked past the graves of those who loved me in lives now forgotten to find a new path home, one that wouldn't pass by the house or the flowers. One that would lead me to the sun. To a new life of my own. A life where I can find my own kind of beauty. My own brand of grace. A life where i am not defined by words carved into stone. And I hope to see him there still.