Once,
When I was just a child,
pondering life in that simple and profound manner
in which children so often do,
I turned to my mother and told her
that all our lives
it was as if we were digging our own graves,
each shovel full of dirt
a memory,
experienced and then put aside
until the hole was made
and we could lay down,
covered in the memories we left behind.
What a depressing thought!
my mother cried
and I was confused.
In my child mind
I could not understand
why it should be so sad.
Because after all those shovels and memories
surely it would be good
to rest.