Would They

I often wonder whether people would care if I died.

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1. Would They

I often wonder whether people would care if I died.

Would they be shocked, too shocked to speak? Would they clap their hands over their mouths, to muffle the twisted sounds slipping past their lips? Would they scream, and cry, and rage?

Would they hold each other close, patting backs soothingly and wiping away each other's tears?

Would they all take care of my affairs, dividing up my possessions between them, tearing apart treasured memories?

Would they bury me in a coffin made of warm, ringed wood, lined with purple or blue or green? A coffin painted white, lined with satin? Or a coffin made of ebony dark wood, lined with blood red?

Would they all come to my funeral together, supporting each other? Would they cling to each other, cling so tight that it felt like they would fall into an endless abyss if they let go?

Would they weep by my graveside, all huddled together like penguins on an iceberg? Would they lay flowers across the mound which would have a headstone in a year's time? Would they lay daffodils, to represent my Welsh heritage? Or freesias, because I've always thought they look really elegant? Or climbing ivy, which would grow up my grave in time, shielding it from prying eyes?

And would she come to my graveside, alone, a few weeks later? Would she cry loudly, her sobs echoing around the tranquil graveyard? Would a single tear escape from beneath her lashes, thick with water? Or would she weep silently, a steady stream of salty moisture making its way down her face and over her lips and chin, dripping on to the now-settling earth over my grave? Would she lie down on my grave, her cheek against the earth, trying to get as close to me as humanly, and inhumanly, possible? Would she kiss the earth, wishing desperately that it was my lips and not stones and soil and sadness?

I often wonder whether people would care if I died, but I know that once the initial shock and sadness had passed, they would all move on. 

They would all forget about the girl they once knew, with the crooked glasses and the lazy, lopsided smile. 

They would all forget about the girl with the wicked sense of humour who always got the giggles, the girl with the uncontrollable laugh, who was always in hysterics at the worst moments. 

They would all forget about the girl who cared so much for her friends that they would put them ahead of anything, even her own safety and well being. 

They would all forget about the girl who loved passionately with all her heart; loved her family, loved her friends. And loved her. Unconditionally. Uncontrollably. And unabashedly. 

I often wonder whether people would care if I died, and I know that they wouldn't really. 

I'm just that girl in the back of their mind, who loved them once, just an echo of the past that pops up every now and then, when they see something I gave them or somewhere we went. 

I'm just some girl who loved them. Once. 

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