Visceral. This is how she probably feels on her knees, next to the garden. Alive and planning. Cleansing herself. Digging and digging a hole—something?—where she can bury her hardship, hiding her swollen and painful grief away, forever locking it from her consciousness and heart. Alice at work. Alice busy. Alice attempting to heal in the neighbor’s yard. Alice remembering her husband and son and the horrible car accident that has taken them from her. Alice sobbing over the dandelion garden. Lost in her world. Distant. Perhaps healing.
Digging. Digging. Digging. One o’clock turns into two. Two o’clock turns into three. From afar, somewhat squinting, I’m reasonably certain the hole becomes six-feet long, staying two-feet wide, but deeper. It has to be three-feet deep. I can tell this becau
