Tom Kaulitz :: Loss

She stands by the old stove, her coat unbuttoned, as if she doesn't feel the cold. Withered carnations are in her hands. She looks at the photo and runs her finger across the cold stone.

"Who did you lose?" A voice sounds nearby. She shudders. There's a man nearby. He's laying flowers on the neighboring grave, straightening the ribbons. "Mom?" he asks.

She shakes her head. She's silent for a long time, and then says quietly: "My husband. An accident. There was a month left before the birth." The man squats by his grave. He straightens the dried stems. "I have a wife." He speaks hoarsely. "Today is the second anniversary. She died in childbirth. My son survived, he'll soon be two. A spitting image of his mother. I look at him and I see her. It's painful... But you have to live. How are you coping?"

She looks at his grave for a long time. Then she looks at her own. She straightens the carnations. "I'm having a hard time coping. My daughter is the spitting image of her father." The wind ruffles her hair. She straightens the collar of her coat and walks away without looking back.