New Year's Eve Vol. The sod is saturated here. The rivers slide their cappuccino fingers through the trees. Dead derelicts, scoured from their dens bob softly seaward.
Nothing interrupts the lawn's flat plane.
Almost twenty years. Still, I walk unerringly to the grave of someone else's child. I scrape dead leaves from the marker's face. The tracks of heavy trucks have cut the slope just south of here. A dozen tiny potholes mark their way.