I was digging a hole

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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.

Paused.

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.