I pitter patter through patty pan, squashing ants and pulling wayward weeds, praying for roots.
The cat’s been pooping in the green beans again, so we’ll wash them once they’re big and grown. The pincer bugs hurry by, waving weird appendages as they tumble over twigs while two orange dragonflies spin in the sun. I buy the sort of snail killer that says “SNAIL KILLER” in bright red angry letters.
I sprinkle death with glee, waiting for empty shells.
The wind is blowing ghost children in the swings again, and since my second son, I have had broken feelings…