DITCH

Crawl out of the ditch and remember this one. Scratch your head, but only in your head, or risk being cliché. Ignore the stares and keep walking, keep your head down and keep to the right. Quickly, stomp your heel on the path, remove the dirt that ties you back to the ditch so at least people will see you trying.

            Admire their clothes, soft black and unmoving as they glide past you down the road. Mumble an I’m sorry, or several. Resist dragging the shovel so at least there is some noise here. Realize there is no place for noise here. Keep your head down.

            Walk and nearly go blind at the shock of seeing her face. Squint to see the little girl and try to determine what flowers she’s bringing through the line. Hold in your shouts, hold in your crises. Contemplate the tiger lilies and how the long petals brush her cheek, tanned with another day of perfect weather. Push dirt around with your foot, let the procession pass and don’t let the little girl see you.

            Watch them circle your ditch. Think about the hard work, the talent, the care, the heat. Rub your neck and wince at the burn. Think about the loss. Think about never saying good-bye. Think about how it would not have mattered. Rub your throat and marvel at how it feels as if you’ve drank lighter fluid. Stare with full determination at the sun.

            Hear them consoling each other. Hear the pitter-patter of feet on hot gravel.

            Steady yourself as your little girl, tiger lilies trailing behind her tries to take you down. Let her screaming, not knowing where her mother is, fill you and look away and point to the ditch that is now full…