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Oct. 28th, 2009 | 10:57 pm

I remember as kids digging a hole in the sandbox in the backyard. We wanted to see how far we could go. We dug all day. We dug past the foundation of the house, past the brown earth and the yellow earth to the white rocky earth we could barely pierce with our shovels. We dug until the rim was well over our heads and our shovels became catapults launching dirt piles to who-knows-where. We dug until we hit water. And we laughed. What is water doing here? We thought. To us, it was like finding China. And no matter how much we bailed it always filled back in. A tiny lake of infinite water. I wondered if somehow it was connected to all of the water on Earth through secret places beneath the ground. I sat there, my dirty knees at its edge, until my face stopped quivering and a giant cloud positioned itself overhead like a giant white afro. My mom called me for dinner and in rising something fell through the surface turning the smiling boy to ripples. I have only just now realized it hadn’t been a pebble as I thought. It was me. That day was the last day I was ever happy and for years know I have lied trapped in the muddy puddle, whose endless waters are the neverending tears I now try to bail before I drown. I don’t know what it means that nobody ever came looking. I guess at this point that nobody will. And I wonder if I should just close my eyes and sink into the secret of the world’s sorrow.

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