I was just trying to notice everything: the light on the ruined Ruins,
this little kid who could barely walk discovering a stick at the corner of the playground,
my indefatigable mother zigzagging mustard across her turkey sandwich,
my dad patting his handheld in his pocket and resisting the urge to check it,
a guy throwing a Frisbee that his dog kept running under and catching and returning to him.
Who am I to say that these things might not be forever?
Who is Peter Van Houten to assert as fact the conjecture that our labor is temporary?
All I know of heaven and all I know of death is in this park:
an elegant universe in ceaseless motion, teeming with ruined ruins and screaming children.
My dad was waving his hand in front of my face. “Tune in, Hazel. Are you there?”
“Sorry, yeah, what?” “Mom suggested we go see Gus?” “Oh. Yeah,” I said.
So after lunch, we drove down to Crown Hill Cemetery, the last and final resting place
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