There is a dip in the yard where a large root sack rotted out a long time ago. It sunk more and more until we got nervous and had to call someone out to look at it. But it was just the remains of a big old tree cut down and the space it needed to take root. You could try to picture what it was like, standing in a grove with the others so tall. I dug and dug to see what I could find but it was only earth, no caverns or underground streams. And set about the task of filling it in, planting grass seed, watering it, trimming the new grass to make it blend in with the rest of the lawn. And is it like that when you lose someone? You look at the space they occupied and it never seems right again. The earth has a gap, the circumference of something mighty cut down, removed. You look at the same scene you always did but can’t unsee the aberration in the frame. Or remember what it was like before.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, poetry