My sister knows exactly how to crawl under my skin and pick at the scabs I've tried my best to hide. Of course, it's all in jest, but when you say I'm not special it hurts me in a way that I don't know how sort out.
She knew exactly where I went that rainy day. I'm predictable even in the way I walk aimlessly. She knew exactly which graveyard I'd wander into and stay just to look at the names.
She never could've guessed what I'd find.
My name is my own. It was given to me by chance but in my mind I am the only one with this name. That's why on that rainy day it came as quite a shock to look down at the next gravestone to find my name, MY name, on a veterans slab.
If she had known that I'd found my person to visit she would've guessed that I'd visit him once a week with flowers. I could never bring myself to look up his history, it would've hurt me so deeply if he had been crotchety, saggy. But I continued instead in ignorance of who this man is. What I do know about him is that one certain person who came here just a couple months ago visits a grave she has no connection to except that she shares the same name.
