Alicia Atkins

He described everything he did in detail, minute and exacting detail.

But the style let him hold himself outside his deeds.

He was an observer the same way I was.

And sometimes, I could all but feel him sitting next to me as I read, his breath in my ear.

Read.

Know.

Remember.

Remember.

The skull is stubborn, or the earth holding it is jealous of losing it.

I end up back at the house, remember the path, remember the direction, three times for different tools before I land on that same small crowbar I'd used all those years ago to remove the loose board.

I wave to the neighbor, his property just over an acre from ours, from mine.

His face is a blur at this distance, but I can see him lift a hand in response.

I guess if I actually get lost on the way back to the house, he might be able to help me.

If I remember he exists at the seminal moment.

Back above the creek, I'm finally able to shift enough of the surrounding dirt, dislodging the roots that had grown through its eye sockets and ear holes, to remove it from its grave entirely.

It's packed full of hardened earth, clay-like in texture.

I have to take it back to the house with me cradled under one arm because my hands are full of tools that need returning to the basement.

On the porch, I sit it on a cinder block with the crown of it pointed down and begin to saturate the insides with water.

I make new rules, the way I had more than a decade ago.

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