Ten years, my tears, and his last breaths.

Wrapped in a white sheet, I carry him outside. Later, my pick and shovel in hand.

It's hot, and the backyard weeds are tough to pull from the high ground.

The sky is iridescent blue. I wish it would rain

I swing the pick and hit dry ground.

The gray slate slab, the black painted letters poke above the tall grass.

I run my hand along the stone and whisper words only he and I can hear.

I wish it would rain.