The gravestone in the dawn is an end to a story, for it is the final full stop upon the final page.
The gravestone had sunk into the soft soil giving it the appearance of shrinking. The engraved words, so weathered by a century of rain, sat just above the level of the ground cover plants that sprawled over the dirt.
"Gravestone" wasn't really the right word. It was more of a "grave-marker." Eustace leant in closer to inspect. He was quite sure it was a railway sleeper cut into a post with a smaller plank nailed over the top to fashion a cross.
Your life could never be marked by a gravestone, something so cold and immobile. Perhaps a tree with a wind-chime in the branches could do you more justice, or a simple song sung into the wind. What lies in the ground is only flesh and blood, that's never what you were. You were quite honestly the most beautiful spirit I ever knew. I pray that you soar with the eagles on lofty breezes and swim in oceans deep; I pray that you know the freedom this life could never give you; yet most of all I pray that when my time comes it is you that takes me by the hand and we go onwards to better times together.