Grief

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Oh, this boy.  This poor boy.  I’m wrapped up in thick clothes and boots, but he stands in front of me talking endlessly about the shine of my eyes, how they peek through the gap between my hat and scarf that covers me to the bridge of my nose.  He’s wearing all of his best things.  His jeans are wrinkled and I can tell he’s fished them out of the washing basket to show off for me today.  His shoes are inappropriate.  He tells me, I’d move mountains for you baby. 

I don’t like the baby.  I don’t know where he learned it, or where it came from.  But I hold him to his word.  I ask him to strip to his pants.  This boy is in his late thirties with an old, balding, stubbly head but his body is clean, smooth and desperately immature.  The shoulders hunched, skinny fat and forming no shadows.  Despite me asking a question, he obeys as though it were an order.  Soon, he’s shivering in the heather and I almost feel sorry for him.

I put the dog lead around his neck and tie the other end to a thin finger of rock, protruding near the base of this gradual slope.  Behind us, a tall craggy cone rises, disappearing into the low cloud.  Politely, I ask if he would move this mountain for me.  To my amazement and horror – gentle reader – the stupid fucker buries his heels in the soaking earth and actually tries.

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