Gemotions

The letter arrived last week. A notice from the city, informing me of the demolition schedule. I folded it carefully and tucked it in my desk drawer, beneath the photo of me and my sister, taken in the very backyard that was now a vacant lot. I'd considered ignoring it. Pretending I hadn't received it.

This morning, though, I drove out to the old neighborhood. I was prepared. I had a small, silver spade.

I parked as far away as possible, a small act of rebellion, and walked towards the property. I knew where the rose bushes had been planted. I remembered the way my mother had always nurtured them.

Then I dug.