Digging a Hole and Thinking on Loneliness

She won’t be coming out today with a glass of lemonade to step gingerly over the pile of Oklahoma red clay, bend down just low enough to kiss me, careful not to get any grime on her. She’s not going to say “You work so hard for us, baby.”

Nope. I’m in this hole alone.

I dreamt about her the other night. For the first time in over a year and a half. It was sudden and awkward, like trying to hold someone’s hand either way too early or way too late.

I don’t miss her. I don’t really miss any of them, to be honest. It’s just the void that bothers me. The chill of their long shadows.

A family of squirrels is pestering my dogs. They are running along the ivy-covered chain link fence while my big white dog tracks them and my brown dog yaps encouragements. One of the squirrels perches on a high vine, crouches, fluffy tail wiggling, then leaps to a bowing branch of my oak tree. The branch dips like a bungee and  my big white dog snaps up at the bastard. The squirrel knows it’s in the clear and, once it climbs into the guts of the tree, it chatters back down to the dogs—taunting.

The game goes on for hours.

And I dig.

A buddy drops by. He works hard while we talk a little about everything, but mostly about my long shadows. Or at least it feels that way to me. The subject is like a stone rolling down hill. It carries me and batters me. I don’t know why I do it to myself.

Yes I do.

Because it’s all my fault. Well, probably it isn’t. I’m too hard on myself is what people say. This one lady told me that I don’t have as much baggage as I think I do. We tried dating. It didn’t take.

I’m such an oaf—good intentions, but always wrecking everything.

Made it 26 feet and my buddy is gone now, but the squirrels are still at it. I unearthed another joint where water is seeping out of the pipe and my tree’s thirsty roots are tangled all around the PVC. The tree is strong, but I got a hatchet in my hand that says I’m stronger.

Gonna need a new line, it turns out. The real problem is underneath the oak tree. The beautiful, proud oak tree. Rather than fighting all those roots, my plumber says to go around. Somehow. I don’t really know how this works, but I know it’s gonna entail more digging. Probably several more days worth and she still won’t be coming outside with that glass of lemonade.