There was nothing remarkable about the day. The world itself seemed blank—its sky blotted out by clouds so thick it looked like an empty canvas, waiting for someone, anyone, to give it life.
Moisture clung to everything: the trees, your hair, your eyelashes. It pooled around your feet, mixing with the sodden earth until the ground became a sticky, muddy mess. Even so, there was nothing extraordinary about the day.
You had always loved rain—the harder and more violent, the better. But this was only a cold, clingy drizzle: not enough to stir the blood, only enough to irritate. You kept wiping your beard as wet strands stuck to your face; sweat and rain have a way of doing that.
The earth gave way easily; it was not hard work. The shovel was new, still carrying the sharp edge gardeners dream about. It bit deep into mud and grass with a heavy thud and that tearing sound—the sound you could never quite get enough of.
You kept at it with ruthless rhythm, stopping only to wipe the wet from your face. It had to be done. You had always known this day would come, even if I never believed you. Behind you, the pile of sticky earth kept growing.
Eventually, the work satisfied you enough that you stopped and surveyed it. It would do. It was enough. You set the shovel aside and walked toward the bundle you had hidden earlier. It had to happen. You knew it, and I knew it too, though we had fought it for a long time.
Without ceremony or care, the earth accepted the offering with a squelch and a thud. You stood there for a moment, shovel in hand—in thought, in prayer, in reverence for what you had done? I will never know.
The rain began to ease, and the clouds finally started to break. You looked up with a smirk on your face. You could not let it go; it had to be done this way. The end had always been part of our beginning.
Then you looked down and spat on the unruly mess below you—the only ceremony you would give the occasion. With the shovel in hand, you returned the mound of dirt as rhythmically as you had disturbed it. It did not take long, not in the mood you were in.
When you finished, you threw the shovel onto the mound and walked away. You had bought it for this moment alone, and now that the work was done, you never wanted to see it again.
It was done. I was done—dead and buried. You had always known this day would come. I simply never believed it.
You walked back to the car, sweat and mud clinging to you. That would not do; you could not stand carrying evidence of the deed on your body. You opened the trunk and found another bundle waiting. You kicked off your boots, peeled away your socks, and stripped off your muddy clothes. Wiping your face with your shirt, you pulled it over your head. You did not care. No one who mattered would see.
Sitting there in your boxers, you sighed.
“You are going to get arrested,” I said gently, offering a bottle of water and a towel.
“Fuck off,” you said. “WE are going to get arrested.”
You smiled—the kind of smile that steals my breath and reaches your eyes. With muddy hands, you pulled me on top of you, and we met each other as equals, both of us sighing at the contact. I cried—you cried. And in that moment, the part of me that had lived inside the past was finally gone, buried by your hands.
We had fought my past for a long time. You never gave up and never gave ground. You saw through the lies, the scars, and the silence because you knew I was worth having, even when I could not see it myself. I did not believe this day would come.
So today, as we made love for the first time as equals, I thank you for another seemingly unremarkable day. My past is done—dead and buried by your hands.
I love you.