The White Orchid

I sit in the back of the car, my iPod pumping mindless rock music into my ears. I don't like rock music, but it doesn't matter. It's the only music loud enough to drown out my thoughts, and the only music pointless enough not to spark any memories. She hated it, so we never listened to it.
  It's been three months. They were so ‘understanding' in the beginning. Their kindness made me sick, and when I was around them they were awkward and uncomfortable, but at least they would let me be alone. Then they began to get on with their lives, and to think that I should get on with mine too. Now they tell me, gently but insistently, that I should try to move on, to let her go.
  But how can I let her go? Without her there's a hollow in me, an empty space in my heart that I can never fill. She knew me better than I knew myself. How can I move on when half of my soul is missing?
  We stop suddenly, as Dad notices a red light just in time. I'm pushed forward a little, and my seatbelt digs into me. I hear him swear, and then Mum turns towards him. I can't hear her through the music, but I know she's comforting him in her soothing voice. She never uses that voice on me any more - in fact she rarely uses it at all, but I think she knows that if Dad arrives angry he'll make everything unbearable.
  We're going to her grave.
  I don't want to go. I never wanted to go. I want to remember her the way she was - her dark eyes, that shone when she laughed; the way she would flick her hair back out of her eyes with a toss of her head; her sudden interests in the most random things. I don't want the first thing I think of when I hear her name to be a lonely grave on a hillside. I try to avoid going there - but my parents think it will help me to ‘move on', and they bring me as often as they can make me go.
  We've arrived. I switch off my iPod, unbuckle my seatbelt, and slowly step out of the car. I can see they're getting impatient - it's a cold day, and they didn't bring proper coats, just jackets - but I can't go any faster. Every step is a struggle. I have to fight the voice inside me that's screaming not to go in.
  There is an oak tree on either side of the graveyard gate. The leaves are golden, and every so often the wind steals one and carries it away. I focus on the leaves. It stops me from looking ahead, to where my feet are reluctantly carrying me.
  We turn a corner, between the neat rows of rectangular graves, and we're too close for me not to look now. I raise my eyes, and look ahead to the place where she's buried.
  The gravestone stands above a small oblong of decorative pebbles. I don't know why the pebbles are there, but most of the other graves seem to have them too. I suppose her parents didn't know what else to do.
  The stone is slightly taller than it is wide, and is made from polished black marble. The words carved into it read: In loving memory of Emily Turnsted, erected by her family and friends. May she rest in peace.
  It seems so cold and distant to me. What do these words have to do with her? They are empty words, repeated over and over on most of the gravestones in the graveyard, any meaning they once had destroyed by repetition. Surely they could have put something more meaningful here?
  As we reach the grave, I run a critical eye over it. It is much the same as the graves around it - a few blades of grass threaten to push their way through the pebbles, and bouquets and wreaths of dried flowers have been laid on top. My parents have brought their own wreath, much smaller than the ones already here, and they lay it down. Then they move away a little, to let me be alone.
  I crouch down a little to read the cards on the other wreaths. One from us, one from her parents, and one from her friends from school. Ours is the smallest.
  I am about to stand up again, to go to my parents and tell them I want to leave, when I see something green near the headstone, hidden by her friends' wreath. What is it? I gently push the wreath out of the way, and my breath catches in my throat.
  The green object is the stem of a flower - a single white orchid. Someone has laid it across the top of the grave. White orchids were her favourite flower in all the world...
  I pick it up gently and hold it up to my eyes. I look closely at it for a moment, before my vision blurs with tears. One falls, and lands on the white petals; another lands beside it. I can almost hear her voice whispering in my ear. White orchids, David! They're my favourite flowers in the world - like little splashes of moonlight!
  Who put it here? Who knew her well enough to know she loved white orchids? She didn't talk about herself unless you made her; she always asked questions to others instead, caring more for them than herself.
  My head spins with a memory, one I had almost forgotten: the day we lay by the river in the sun, and she sang to me, for the first and last time. I never knew she could sing before that day, but afterwards I had no doubt that she could. She sang something sweet, but sorrowful: I have half-forgotten the words, but they weren't important - it was all in the tune.
  A sharp wind blows suddenly through the graveyard. I open my eyes and stand up slowly, still holding the white orchid. The wind is still blowing hard, and it tugs at the orchid's petals. I can see my parents watching me out of the corner of my eye, but they don't matter right now. All that matters is that in the very heart of the wind I can hear the faintest trace of a song.
  I know what I have to do, but I'm afraid, and I whisper softly to the wind, ‘I don't want to forget her...'
  The song in the wind gets louder, as if in reply. Now I can tell for certain that it is her voice, and I nod gently. I'm not afraid any more. I can't ever forget her, but I know now that I can move on - not past her, but with her.
  I feel my own cold tears on my face, but raise my free hand and gently brush them away. The time for tears is over: the time for new beginnings is here. I smile softly, my first smile in three long months, and then I uncurl my fingers and do what I was meant to do. I let the orchid go.
  And in the last moments of the wind, which has what it came for and is now dying away, I hear the song louder than ever; and above it I hear her voice.
  ‘Thank you, David...'