About halfway through digging the grave, I realized that I had picked a bad plot of land. I can only blame my inexperience and a desire to get it done as quickly as possible.
It was next to the garden which at the time struck me as simultaneously practical and romantic. The soft dirt would make digging easy, and the thought that the body would fuel the growth of the lettuce and carrots of the garden felt beautifully cyclical in a way that strongly appealed to the Lion King-tinted philosophy of my youth.
If I had not dug so close to the stone walkway - that is to say, if I hadn't dug directly next to the stone walkway - everything would've worked out fine. As it were, when I had reached the two foot mark, I began worrying that I might be undermining the stability of the heavy stone slabs.
I put the shovel aside and stood on the walkway. I did a little hop in much the same way my dad would hop on the bumper of a car he was interested in to test the suspension. There was no give, which was a good sign, but then the thought entered my mind that a house as old as ours would surely undergo renovations at some point. Not by our family, certainly. We were living in this smaller, older house for a reason. But some future owner, a handsome couple in their early thirties, maybe, who made a lot of money doing whatever it is that rich, handsome couples in their early thirties do. Something involving the stock market, maybe. Trading. That seemed like a thing.
This was a nice neighborhood, though, and this house was not nice enough for it. Renovations would be inevitable, and first on the list would be the ugly (I imagine the couple would use the word "hideous") stone walkway and the embarrassingly quaint garden. I pictured a bulldozer. A group of rough hewn men standing around it holding cups of coffee, watching it as it indifferently unearthed our backyard.
The foreman would frown as some small, white object flashed in the dirt. He'd yell, "Stop!" as he moved a hand back and forth across his neck. The bulldozer would quietly idle, and he'd pick up the white thing. A plastic grocery bag. There was a box inside, he could feel it. He'd untie the grocery bag only to find another grocery bag. He'd untie that one, too, and find the decaying, frail, faded cardboard of a shoebox.
"What is it, boss?"
He wouldn't answer. He would stand stock-still and he'd see me then, covered in sweat and dirt, as I carefully lowered this package into the earth. Maybe he could even see me hovering by the grave after it was all done - the rush of endorphines that only comes with hard labor dulling the lump in my throat.
He'd even see me as I tried to sleep that night. I was imagining the grave that my dad had dug before he went to work that morning. He hadn't told me about it, hadn't told me that I didn't have to dig a grave, that he had done it for me. He had picked a great spot, too - under the half-dead tree in our front yard. Or maybe he had told me and I simply misunderstood - this was something that was happening more and more.
I could see him digging in the early morning, and then later refilling the grave when I told him that I had dug my own.
"What is it, boss?"
"Nothing," the foreman would finally respond. He'd walk over to the tree around the corner - the one that only had blossoms on one side - and he would open the box. He'd see a gray sweater covered in gritty, dusty decay. He would touch the center of the mass with a gentle hand - though he already knew what was there - and feel a curled-up lump of delicate bones.
He'd see me again as I wrapped the body. First the sweater that he liked to curl up in, the one he had died in, then the box. Then a grocery bag and another. I can see how he cared for him, the foreman would think. I can see it in these layers.
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