I was digging a hole
I was digging a hole to bury my regrets in: that I have spoken harshly to those I love, that I am distant and frightened and self-involved. It was going to be a pretty deep hole. My palms ached from the shovel’s rough handle.
Foolish thoughts, foolish words, foolish actions: all headed in there. That was the plan at least. Moonlight and crickets. I was aware of my exhaustion, frayed nerves.
I’m kind of in a messed-up spot, I said out loud, and I heard a voice (it was my voice) say “Compared to what?” — and the ground lurched.
There is no baseline spot in relationship to which any other spot can be described as kind of messed up.
The earth slid from the shovel . . . the shovel from my hands . . .
Is this how the kite feels when the string snaps?
The moonlight filled the hole and came boiling over the edges like milk.about the author