Deep in the woods, past the creek, around the boulder and under the tree, there was a grave. When the sun beat down in the scorching days of the indian summer and broke through the thick canopy, it managed to miss it by a foot or two. The forest floor caught the sun, lapped it up and grew. But the little grave got no sun, and so it remained in the shade; cold and bare.
It was not marked with a headstone, nor a cross, because there was no one to mark it, as such. Oh there were crows and worms and maggots who marked it well, but no one to remember. Some long dead time ago, someone knew who lay there, beneath the grey and rocky soil. Someone shed tears, surely. Someone dug a hole, 3 feet by 6, in the soil, someone toiled in the lashing rain, someone piled the earth high and dug and dug and dug. Someone filled the grave.
But someone had forgotten what they filled it with. Had it been a mother, a father, a son, a daughter? A stranger, chance met? A beloved family pet? A baby bird who flew too soon? No, none of these. Someone would remember who lay in the grave.
Someone would remember. Remember that every single someone must dig their own graves, at the end of the end of days.
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