“Son, what may you be doing at this hour?” I cease. My hands were dry and calloused. “Digging.” I replied. “What for?” “A grave,” I answered, “reserved for myself. Strictly utilitarian.” A sadness lowered itself onto my mother’s shoulders like a barbell. “No one is saying you’re dead, child. There will be no grave if you simply stop digging.” I was unconvinced. She turns away. “At least pause to have your ravioli, sweetheart. Continue digging if you so wish.” The shovel soon found its place in the grass. “Son, what may you be doing at this hour?” I let the poor shovel rest upon the disturbed earth. “Burying.” I breathed. “What for?” The pale mound of dirt tempted me, but I silenced its cries. Death’s resting place had no business here, especially while the sun still shone. “Mother, there is ravioli to be had I cannot afford to neglect.” Had I not let the shovel rest, I’d be lying within the grave I dug.
Emily BockEmily Bock is fifteen years old, in her sophomore year attending Fairview Park High School. Outside of writing, Emily takes interest in art, history, marching band, filmmaking, and Junji Ito.