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March 2, 2014
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There was a beige folding chair resting on freshly cut wet grass, which surrounded a tiny, tiny grave. All around, the leaves rustled, the squirrels played tag, the rabbits bounced around. A little girl dressed in a pink cotton dress with white sandals sat in the chair, her ponytail gently swaying in the wind. She hummed to herself, her eyes wandering to the shapeless clouds, dull sky, and browning trees. The edge of her shoe touched the little dirt mound that seemed to be there. She imagined it as an ant mound, taking a stick and tracing patterns on it. Then it became a fortress, filled with moats and castles. Drip, drip, drip. Water droplets hit the dirt and disappeared, leaving a dark spot. She looked up; the sky was still clear. A breeze blew across her face, and her face felt cold and streaked with wetness that tasted like salt. Still, she waited. Waited for her dead baby chick to come back to life.

Early that morning, one of her two baby chicks had passed away. They were given to my sister from a family friend. My father had buried it in the backyard right under one of our big flourishing trees, and told my sister that the baby chick was just sleeping; it would wake up and crawl right back out, maybe even find its mommy.

So my sister waited. But she knew.
She pretended she didn’t. But she knew.
Her baby chick was gone.

So she sat in the chair, shoe touching the mound. She hummed softly to herself, face streaked with tears. She looked into the sky, saw the meaningless clouds, dull sky, and watched as her little baby chick dug its way out of the dirt. It waddled out of the backyard, where its momma was waiting for her. They left together, and lived happily ever after.

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