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.