For the first time in years I slid my back door open and stepped foot into my garden. The plants were dying if not already dead. Yellow grass strangled the lemon tree and the big bushy one beside it. I wondered what creatures lived within their grasps. But I soon realized I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know. Knowledge is trouble and I’m troubled already.
I channeled my way to the farther side where once my family rocked on a porch-swing that was now long gone. Below an aged patch of roses I found a burrow. A hole. Something must live in it. I wondered how long? Was it still there? Hiding so no one could see? A hole, dark and disgusting. A hole you could jump in yet steered away from.
Turning back to the door, I walked into the shelter of my home. But the hole, its image, still throbbed in my thoughts. A hole should be filled, no? I shook it off. Maybe some holes could never be filled. Or maybe those who could fill them just turned and walked back.