The other day, I woke up thinking it was a perfectly ordinary, everyday sort of Tuesday.
Except it wasn’t. Even though it was.
I asked myself: If the world is ending today, what do I want to do today, with my last day?
Hands in dirt.
It was a sunny, dry, mild kinda Tuesday.
My partner was working in our garden.
I wanted to also.
Perched awkwardly, uncomfortably, on a low stool, I clawed my way into the soil surrounding the rose bush I bought when we first moved in, the short one that grows beside the tall one a bird gifted us that following spring.
Blade by blade, I excised the grass at their bases.
The dirt was thick, rich, still cold from winter.
Pausing mid-pull, I looked up at the clear blue spring sky and wondered if this was what it was like for the last dinosaurs, too?
An everyday sort of Tuesday…
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