The Past

I bury him in a shoebox at 4:15. I scrape at the ground in the shadow of the fire escape with the spoon I'd saved for this purpose. I excavate, chunks of dirt piling. I crush each between my thumb and forefinger in a burst of dust. At this hour, this street is populated with vacant, bloodshot eyes. I am just another wraith in the predawn.

I remove the lid one final time. The breeze cuts down the narrow alley, fluttering the photographs and letters in the box. I drop the spoon in and shut it inside.

I dance upon the replaced earth, each step a nail in the coffin. I finish when the soil stops relenting to my feet.

It is 5:00 when I walk to the corner, 5:13 when I board the first bus. At 7:15, the train and I head west, running against the turning of the Earth. A funny thing about traveling west: time slows.

The last day of my past is the longest day of my life. Of this life, anyway. Who's to say about the one I'm about to begin?

When the sun goes down on me, I think, I will be at home.