Life is very short and there's no time.

I reach for the leaf as it falls, miss and catch it roughly with the other hand. It crumples under my overeagerness. It finds its way to my dilating nostrils. The smell is intoxicating, moist, alive, like fall before the wonderful smells it brings have had time to ferment and germinate the air. For a moment I am my younger self running through my grandmothers back yard, as yet unencumbered by the pains and responsibilities of adulthood. I hear her wavering voice call my name - time to come in. Then, just as abruptly, I am back to the real world. I glance downward, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. A granite slab stares back at me. There are words and numbers engraved in it; my grandmothers name, Irene Ocamb, and the two dates society sees as her most important. The mason added the words "our grandma" on it, for validation I suppose. I try to pull some bit of emotion from this stark memorium and draw a blank.
When my parents used to drag me here in younger years I'd watch, standing awkwardly, as they would address the stone as a living entity, giving it updates. "We miss you so much" they'd tell it "you should see how big the kids have gotten". Always positive. Never "Matt failed another class, we just don't get it. He's so smart. Rather, "In a few years they'll be able to drive to see you own their own." That hadn't happened until today. I made the long drive and stood, now in my 30's, trying just as unsuccessfully to feel like this was normal or, at very least, served some sort of purpose toward the fulfillment of my, or her, soul. The breeze picked up and as I pulled my jacket closer to me I looked around. A few families scattered here and there on the lot, cars respectfully waiting silent. A woman was crying, held by a husband who, upon noticing my intrusion, gave me a "what can you do?" kind of look.
Someone once said you can judge the progress of a culture by how they treat their dead. I wondered where that left me, seemingly bereft of graceful connection to those who'd passed. I was aware that below me lay my grandmothers physical remains, such as they were, but I could not reconcile that boxful of 'things' as having anything to do with the boisterous, generous, and funny woman I'd known and loved. As I mentally chewed on the disconnect it struck me that it was, perhaps, better to judge progress based on the way a culture treated its living instead.
I knelt and cleared some grass from the edges of the marker. I swept dust off with my hand, feeling nothing but cold stone. I turned and headed toward my car, walking slowly, as I felt was proper. "I know you can't hear me any better or worse here" I thought "but I did love you and miss you. I'm sorry I wasn't the grandson I should've been."