The coolest day in August

And as the sweat dripped down my swollen and sticky face.

The salt and mascara carving the creases
and folds of rivers and lakes.

Pores and scars and motion. Lines.

Love.


The salt hit my lips, my tongue.

And those kind of heaving cries that convulse in your throat and strangle you.

Those low pitched moans that barely escape your lungs and as you feel them gush through your throat, you know somewhere,

That it isn't only you.

And love.

As I watched my sister lay her dog in the ground.

As I squeezed the moss underneath my bare feet and sweated. As I stared at her through sunshine and the furry haze of full eyes.

My dad dug the grave in the morning. And in the afternoon, when the clouds broke, and when the breeze lifted, we laid him in the ground.

And oh, love.

Arrange him just right. And as my dad's back ached, and the sweat and dirt filled the wrinkles in the back of his weighing head. I picked up a second shovel.

The soles of my feet collided with the steel. Stepping into the red clay, the roots and the grass. The worms and the rocks. Feel the clay beneath your toes. Warm and complete. Sultry and alive.

Step. Lift the shovel.

Help your sister.

Sweat and dirt.

And oh love.

What of it?

Time, and time, and time again.

The reason for living.

The pain that makes you wish it would stop.

And this year.

We walked from the creek to the grave. Over and over. Rocks from the creek bed to lay over his body.

We won't let anything happen to him.

Rocks. bend and lift. sweet moss beneath my feet.

And this year. The fourth person I've laid in the ground.

Oskar, and John, Mawmaw and now my sister's dog.

My sister's heart.

And the pain that comes from loving?

All of it. And none of it.

Everything.

Love.

Everything.