The Hole

This hole is already deep. And although I love to garden, my shovel is weary as I lift each handful of dirt, willing my rubber arms to dump it up and out past the edge of the growing hole. The shifting dirt at my feet skews my balance as I fight each shovel to the top. The sun beats down a cadence upon my tear and dirt-streaked face. The humid air presses my lungs and my breath. But I must keep digging.

My fingers raw, the splintered wood handle digs deep into my flesh. This started simply enough. An old treasure map found in an attic corner. The former owners had buried it deeply in the edge of the yard. And so I dig. The mounds at the edge of my hole grow tall, castle peaks stretching to the beating sun. My limbs stretch, too. Reaching across the ever-increasing gap to lift each shovel of dirt higher than humanly possible.

That is always the way with me, shoveling more than I can lift or carry. But I continue, red bandana wiping the sweat from my brow. The shovel clinks suddenly onto a metal home, and I bend to see what I have found. My blistered hands work feverishly now, brushing the dirt from around the box. My fingernails ingest dirt as I try to pry the box from the earth.

The treasure finally gives way, earth dripping around it as I stumble backwards from its weight. I cannot get it out of the hole; I will have to open it right here. I grab the crow bar I have thought to bring, always ready for anything really, and pry the lid from its base. Involuntarily I hold my breath in anticipation of the delights I will find.

The lid falls away and my anticipation turns to disgust. The treasure chest is empty. My work in vain. The blisters on my hands mock me as I sink to my knees, unable to hold back the wrenching sobs of my disappointment.

And so it goes. I haul my battered body to the top of the hole, sliding down again until I think to use the box for leverage. I return to where I started and reverse the actions of the day. I kick the piles of dirt into the gaping hole, tears and sweat joining the flying soil.

I turn silently back to the house, my heart and arms just as empty as before.