found drama

The smell is overpowering.  Like Her in death.  No one can tell where it has come from.  We pull our shirt collars up to our noses and wave our hands.  The smell overtakes everything else.  I’m elected to take care of it.  I grab the garbage can and take it out to the edge of the property.  I grab the shovel and plunge it into the ground.  The stab becomes a line.  The line becomes a circle.  The circle becomes a square.  The square becomes a cube.  I’ve never dug so quickly before.  I pour the can into the hole.  The liquids pour out then the few solids.  The smell is still everywhere.  I throw the can in with the rest of the garbage.  I’m fearful that someone will smell this.  I’m fearful will think one of us has killed Her.  I fill the hole.  Shovelful after shovelful of dirt.  But it isn’t enough to fill the hole.  It’s half full.  Maybe.  Certainly there’s more dirt than this.  I bite my lip as a friend (W.?) approaches and says that no matter how closely you keep track of the dirt, there’s always some the goes missing.  I can still smell It.  I writhe out of my clothes and bury those, too.

About Rob Friesel