Molehill

He had a wife and children. He had a mortgage. He had all of the elements of a life well lived.*

He found a shovel one day, and an agreeable patch of earth and he dug himself a hole.

He kept digging that hole, he dug until the crows came home,

dug until the black lung bleated, and the cows punched their cards.

He dug until the sun was no more than a bad memory.

His wife and children called down to him like crazed partisans, barking the need to tend the fence, the lawn, the hedges, but he was deaf to them. He dug, and he dug, he dirtied his elbows, his pants, his face, until there was no distinction between the soil and his soul.

And he muttered. He muttered until the moon danced through all of its phases, until the sun decided to hide in extinction , until the clouds lost the will, or the strength to part. “I haven’t reached the bottom until I stop digging.” and so he dug.

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