(Short)

We walked through the yard searching for the shovel and pickaxe. There was a box behind a broken and forgotten recliner. In August, even after the sun has set, the air is humid and warm. Our foreheads perspired with sweat as we searched. I also looked for flowers to place on her grave, but flowers were few and far between. I could only find things such as lavender and a weed with tiny white flowers. They were only half blooming. Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse. When we found the tools, we had to climb over an old half-broken wire fence. He broke the hard, dry ground and dug a shallow grave. With each swing of the pickaxe he gasped for breath. I stood watching in sandals half-covered in poison oak. In my hands was the tiniest bouquet of half-blooming weeds I had ever seen. I placed them on her grave and cried. I did not cry because she was dead, I cried because she deserved more than half-grown flowers. She deserved more than to die in a half-grown body.

I was warned of dying bees at age 7

so I planted sunflowers

I was warned of overflowing landfills at age 13

so I recycled

I was warned of depleting fossil fuels at age 18

so I drove an electric car

I was warned of our dying planet at age 22

so I cried

Eight hours of hell and

I'm back from it

laying in Boston Terrier PJs and

watching old cartoons stoned and

laughing when

I see you snoring and

drooling

your eyelashes long and

dark against the white of your skin

unaware and

still

you have brown hair plastered against your cheek

I never noticed

the curves of your face framed by

the blue soft hue of mornings light.