Shovel

I have to take a deep breath because I feel it try to settle under the skin. They don’t say it outright but the context is there: 

Take care of this. Fix this. 

I shake it out. I try to keep my pulse steady, try to keep the river of blood calm. Try to keep my vision clear. That anger never got me anywhere and that’s why I stopped relying on it. But oh how it lies in wait. Like the beast you scared off to the high caves. Not afraid but just plotting and planning its perfect revenge. 

I am not vengeful. I have moved on. I buried that axe and lost the map. Burned down the olive tree after I snapped off all the branches. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. 

I don’t fix things anymore. If they break I leave them broken. If they start to strain under the weight I watch without worry. Not me. My license expired; I changed my name; forgot the handiwork. The muscle memory has faded. I’m rarely even tempted to flex what used to be. Sometimes it seems I’m too young to have lived all these lives. Worn all these masks. Been all these fools. 

You have to let it in. And then you have to take it out. You walk it out as far as you can. Away from the yard. Into the trees. You set it up. You hold it still. Then you dig the grave. 

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