I stood, looking down at the placard the city bought as her head stone. There were no etched words like “Beloved Mother” or “Beloved Daughter.” There was only her name and the date of her birth and death. As I looked at the date of her death, I thought it was all wrong. She died the day I was born. I was really sorry, too. I cried wishing things could have been different. I was glad I had been born, but a part of me realized the sacrifice my mother made to give me life. What plagued me most was the question of how I could love the person who deviled my desires. She was the Devil who could never be my mother. She was the Devil who left me. She was the Devil who could only apologize. And, I was the Devil who had taken her life. I was the Devil who stole her family. I was the Devil. I dropped the white rose I had brought with me on top of her marker. I walked to the edge of the graveyard and turned, holding up my hand, covering her marker, covering the emptiness.
9