A light breeze flies through the air leaving the world seemingly untouched, but mine is crashing down. It blows wisps of my hair back, exposing my face to the cold air. There’s a sharpness to it, like it’s nipping at my face with every step I take. The dress I’m wearing is dark and long, but it isn’t thick and I can feel goose bumps forming on my skin. They rise up out of my pale arm, trying to escape from the flesh they belong to. Almost as if they want to join me in my walk, and pay their respects with the rest of us.

Trudging up the hill my feet drag through leaves, wet with morning dew. They’re a shockingly bright orange and yellow color, a massive contrast to the bland environment surrounding it. The leaves drop from the trees falling slowly, leaving their once home to stand alone in the sky; naked without them. A duller version of themselves, the trees now sit and keep guard over all the families. As I amble on I pass rows and rows of family and friends. I recognize some and still there’s even more I don’t know. I pass the Scherer family: father, son, and mother, nodding my respects to them. I do the same when I see old Mrs. Bartel, a sweet old lady. She stood alone, waiting for her husband to come and join her so they could be together again at last.

When reaching the top of the hill there becomes an apparent deafening silence; though there are many people here. It is the silence of a family broken; of a tragedy that cannot be undone. This crowd of strangers is who we’ve always called family, even the ones who we haven’t seen in years. All of them are here for one thing, they’re waiting for someone. I walk through them, straight to the front. Placing my hand on the smooth, chilling, marble plaque. I know what they’re waiting for. They’re waiting for a mother to bury her son.
Anthony J. Reinhold. Born August 14, 2012- Died October 20, 2012.