Hollow R. Schlaugat it began when she and I tore fistfuls of grass from the ground nervously on date one, gouging out the little grave where our time capsule would lie, marked by time and sharpie hearts, carefully curated memories rooted in trust and infatuation. it wasn’t until we dug a hole for a home’s foundation that she thwacked me with the shovel on the back of the skull, and I tumbled into the ditch we carved together. she sprinkles soil on little by little now. it’s in my eyes and in my hair. I think she wants to keep me buried here with the worms and the wet, roots tangled in clay loam. choked by bedrock, but I just dig my heels in. and she pats the last dirt flat with a wink and a kiss goodbye.
56
