Digging

(in response to Hunger, a poem by Jack Gilbert)

I digged I dug I delved into,

one tiny scratch turned into few,

gleam of polish disguised the blemish,

the scratches now many,

the shine diminished,

wood laid bare and dry.

Paper creating millions of scratches,

billions of scratches,

revealing the grain, the wear, the damage of time,

the beauty of experience and origin combined,

beneath the the polish beneath the bark.

I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea, but here I am under the old pine tree with a shovel in my hand. Digging for past. How many pets are buried amongst the roots. Cats and turtles, a couple of teddy bears, a piece of myself hidden underneath the shadows of the branches.

If I scrape some of the bark off, I know I am going to find that same red layer underneath, the layer which made me think of pain so many years ago. Blood red. I've hurt a living thing. It's not right to call THING something that lives, and grows, and dies. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Andy the cat. He fell from one of these branches and broke his spine. His hind legs never moved again. We should have had him put down but we couldn't afford it. It's not easy to kill something that meows and purrs and still wants to live. Something. I wrote it again. Andy died eventually. Thankfully.

All those pets we used to keep to fill the emptiness of our home. How many are buried under this old pine tree? I can't bring myself to dig.

The past is the past.

I want to leave it alone.