This is something that I wrote for an English class assignment. We had to observe a person and write something about them; my teacher referred to it as "Stalker Notes." Almost everyone in the class wrote sarcastic and funny pieces about eccentric people that they had seen. I, on the other hand, observed and wrote about something more serious.
There are things that we should do, but put off instead. Some of us run out of time, and don't realize it until it's too late.
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Regret
Small flags and yellow ribbons fluttered at the base of several headstones. Some bouquets were bright and vibrant, but others were withered and dying, leaving behind a shower of crumbling, scattered petals. Aside from a bird perched in a nearby tree, I was the only living thing among the neat rows of granite markers in the military cemetery; a fact that I was grateful for. When I visit friends that I have lost, I prefer to share my thoughts with them alone.
I traced my fingers over the letters etched in the smooth granite, noticing once again how painfully close together the dates of birth and death were for one of my closest friends. It wasn’t right, not at all.
On second glance, I wasn’t alone after all. A young woman was walking slowly through the neat rows of headstones. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and her eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. It was the look of someone whose world had been shaken to the core, and who was now trying desperately to hold themselves together. I recognized that look well; I have worn it myself, and have seen it here many times. Death in war is ugly, brutal, and sudden, and it tears a jagged hole in the lives of unsuspecting families and friends. We come to the cemetery in search of a silent, solitary place to sit and reflect, trying to think of adequate words to say goodbye when we shouldn’t have to at all.
The young woman half-knelt and half-collapsed in the grass next to a bare mound of earth that marked the site of a recent burial. The temporary cardboard marker that had been pressed into the dirt until a permanent headstone could be placed read simply, “S.SGT. David E. Weaver. Beloved son, brother, and friend. May 9, 1987 - March 30, 2009.” I assumed that she was the fallen soldier’s sister.
Her right hand slowly curved into a shape. Thumb out, first and last finger pointed up, and two middle fingers tucked against her palm: American Sign Language for, “I love you.” She tenderly stroked the cardboard marker with her three outstretched fingers.
I knew from experience that that touch wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy the desperate need to hold loved ones again. Stiff and unresponsive cardboard and granite are poor substitutes for those who they represent, but for now we have no other choice.
She curled into a tight ball, pressing herself firmly against the damp ground. Her fingers dug into the grass, clutching at it as though she were trying to reach beneath the layers of soil and hold her fallen brother.
The tears began to fall down her cheeks, slowly at first, and then faster and harder. Her quiet sniffles turned to wrenching sobs that wracked her whole body with violent tremors. She lifted her gaze to the sky, and a wail of utter grief and anguish poured forth from somewhere deep in her body. “Why? Why my brother? Please, God! Why couldn’t I have one more day?” She was choking on her tears now, choking and coughing and gasping as she cried. “I’m sorry. Dear Lord, why was I so stupid? I’m sorry, David. I’m so sorry!” The words were punctuated with gasps, whimpers, gags, and coughs: the sounds made by someone who is crying so hard that they are breathless and frantic.
I realized that she was one of the people who waited. They put off a confession or an apology, waiting for another time, another day, another chance that now would never come. Now she, like so many others, was left to speak those important words in front of a mound of earth and a grave marker instead of the person who needed to hear them.
I removed the wilted stems and crumbling leaves and petals from the base of the gravestone before me, replacing them with a bouquet of daisies dyed a rich red. Then I walked away, leaving the woman alone with her tears, regrets, and unspoken words.
-El Fin-
Yet, this was very thought provoking and made me realize that life is so very precious. We must treasure every single moment. This is a very very good piece of work. You ought to be proud of yourself for this Blue Kangaroo. 
