Standing at his grave

I watch as my mother

places a rose upon the gravestone.

She whispers secret words to him,

and I notice tears

rolling down her face.

My own whispered confessions feel

extraordinarily feeble

compared to my mother's,

even though I cannot hear her words.

The headstone is decorated now

by eleven orange roses

that mother and daughter purchased at Kroger,

as well as the roses carved

deep and ornate

into my father's cold, marble tombstone.

The twelfth and final rose

is in my hand.

As I place this last and final rose

on top of his grave,

I run my fingers

over the words engraved there.

Alfred L. Pisarek

December 14, 1948 to March 26, 2011

"Happy birthday, Daddy," I whisper

before turning around,

hugging my mother with tears in my eyes,

and heading home.