Cracked earth and shriveled husks, trampled beneath our bare feet as a dry wind finally settles.

A bright, hot blaze from above, surrounded by a sea of maddening azure, our hope—in a shade of thundering gray—still unanswered.

The hilt of a shovel abandoned amidst withered crops, its rough wood a reminder of blisters on our hands, of dawning alarm when the rains wouldn’t come.

A rasping cry of despair from the barnyard, breaking apart into a dry heave.

Our eyes burning with heat and worry as we arrive from the field’s edges, lips raw and peeling and grimacing, legs throbbing from hours of hopeless wandering through acres dead and barren.

Mother’s weak, shriveled hand beckoning us forward, her figure weary and ravaged as an animal carcass in the barnyard’s shadow—the sickness has been getting worse.

Dust floating from the rafters as we enter, our footsteps quiet, hesitant and afraid.

A bundle of blue fabric cradled in her arm, innocent and terribly bright against the barn’s muddled brown—I couldn’t feed, her eyes say, aching and streaked with red.

Our quivering fingers, dry and cracking, as we unveil what lies beneath the cloth.

Cries of anguish when nightmare turns to reality.

--

A pale, bright moon and a veil of stars glittering against the navy night sky, pinpricks of light to guide our packing in the hours that follow.

Pots and pans, bedsheets and pillows, brooms and a broken shovel handle loaded into the pickup truck as the sun rises, the clock of this world ticking endlessly in the same, bleak pattern.

A crinkled, white daisy tucked delicately into my shirt pocket, the last remnant of our family's beloved flower garden—now abandoned and parched—its papery petals filled with memories of bountiful harvest, of laughter and love, of bustle and bloom.

A landscape aching with thirst, an abandoned house, and an old truck filled with gear, the sole remnants of a life worked so tirelessly to build.

A cold form swathed in a baby blue blanket, placed gently in the back seat.

--

Sharp pebbles that crunch beneath our worn tires, the memory of a deflated spare on the garage floor echoing through our minds, Father flinching with every bounce and jostle; we see the prayers etched onto his silent face in the rearview mirror. 

Shriveled tails and broken wings, udders that will never again give milk and coops that will never produce eggs, settled in the graveyard that was our previous life, awaiting nature’s next unforgiving burial.

Faint tears sliding down Mother’s cheeks as we pass, her body suffering and sick, hunched now with the burden of loss.

Our trembling looks at one another, at the daisy in my shirt pocket and the memories it holds, at the blue bundle in the back seat; waves of shame break our expressions into grief—we thought it would be okay.

Men with shaking knees and aching feet, wandering through desolate fields as we drive past, eyes flicking towards our truck then back to their homes, wondering if the time has come.

The infinite and listless plains, crushing our hopes of what lies beyond, turning our lives and dreams to specks of sand amidst a vast desert, until only the baby blue blanket and what lies beneath—don’t think about what lies beneath—drives us onwards.

A rusty shovel blade, settled in the center of the road as Father steps out, picks it up, moves to return it to the barren wilderness, reconsiders, throws it in the truck.

Tiny sips of stale, lukewarm water, hands cupped beneath bottles to preserve precious droplets—we savor the feeling in our mouths, but Mother says we must conserve water; our throats disagree.

A few glances at the blanket before our thirst is stilled.

--

A burning day and creeping exhaustion, the smell of sweat and heartbreak lingering in the air, attaching itself to our attempts at smiles, feeding on our silence.

A sun setting before our cracked windshield, its vibrant oranges and fluorescent pinks coursing through the sky and stretching before us, like beautiful veins through which dusk’s blood pulses.

A single tree, silhouetted against the failing light, leaves turning amber as we approach, beckoning us forward.

A patch of green grass beneath the branches, blades reaching towards the sky in simple, resolute effort, thriving quietly amidst the desolate, arid landscape beyond as if protected by fate’s hand.

The soft spot of earth receiving our footsteps as if awaiting our arrival, ready to nurture in death what we couldn’t nurture in life.

A slight wind picking up as a duct-taped shovel scoops rich, soft soil from a deepening pit, then delivers it to a growing pile.

The last, white daisy from an old, beloved home, descending carefully onto newly replenished earth an hour later, memories laying themselves to rest as the ground yields to petals, returning to the soil in which they first bloomed.

A spark of life igniting within Mother’s eyes, embers of passion and hope finally stirring themselves to flame once more, as our hands grasp each other in dawning realization: it’s done.

Glances turning towards the road stretched ahead—towards the sharp pebbles and bumps and ditches, towards the uncertainty—as the winds of burial blow between past and future, an ending and a beginning, one world gone and another born.

Sorrow, grief, fear, anger… and resolve in our hearts when we look back at our work, memorize this scene, tether ourselves and venture into the unknown.

A simple, blue bundle embraced comfortingly in the earth beneath our feet.

A quiet moment to say our final goodbyes.