I’m cross with you, not really though… just consumed in your death. You couldn’t die in the sun with a warm summer breeze to dry mother’s tears. Wait until the Earth was green and pleasant. But you didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. So the grass is drowning in mud, the grey sky above dumps rain upon your grave site. Goosebumps rise on the skin at the touch of the cold soil. The rusty shovel slips in my wet hands as I continue to dig. Jeans stained with earth, soil encrusts itself onto my tired hands. Yet I continue to dig imagining the maggots working their way to your corpse even now. Mothers eyes reflect the dark sky, skin pallid she gazes at the pink bundle that is now you, swaddled tightly. A bitter taste in my mouth I place you in the tiny grave. I don’t know if you have a soul but I’m certain if you do it will intertwine with that of the numerous, beloved companions that have passed before you. I mutter goodbyes as I gently cover your fragile body. A silly old friend. Friend. You were my friend.