Weeks on End
Article voiceover
i. and everything is still as it was. I remember clutching a sun-dried plastic chair in June behind a house I’ll never see again. up against the fence was a clustered stack of branches, sprawling in disarray and sunlight after the clouds had come, brought rain and moved on. ii. it is not in likeness I find the fog caught between the bluffs or the blue of a crow’s spread wings and make it into mine. iii. a boy fell in the grave and I just stood. the boy was trying to pour dirt over his uncle, slipped and struck the wooden coffin his father made by hand and wooden nail, left behind what dripped and ran down his young forehead until his father scooped him up. what I still think about is how his parents covered his face, the congregation wiped their flushed cheeks, and I still had to think it all meant something.