An old story I seem to keep coming back to.

It never got easier to bury things.  Some things just never changed.  It was always crap earth in some way.  This was thick, sticky, clumping around the base of the spade and making it difficult to drive the metal back into the ground over and over.  It’s raining too, making the soil heavy, resisting and unyielding.

 
I wonder why I made the hole so deep.  Such a bottomless pit of death that I’ll only have to fill again.  And I wonder why it’s always me to do it.  Why I bury the lambs that have staggered and slumped by the barn and the house.  This one was the first my brother saw – his first true death among the sheep.  He begged me for a proper burial for it, despite having seen sheep leave for the slaughter a week ago. 

 
I’d given the creature some greater measure of dignity for his sake, wrapping it in a blanket and burying it near a tree in the field.  It’s always felt suitable to bury them under the cover of night, and this one is taking longer than usual this drizzling and cold evening.  I’ve made the hole too damn big, too deep.  My arms and back are screaming raw abuse at me for it, for the mindless act. The body isn’t large, but I could fit in the grave. 

At least the sticky clay is keeping the sides stiff, stopping it from caving in.  Much easier than sand, which moves like it has a sadistic mind of its own.  Sand graves are impossibly hard to dig, with the blazing sun and splintering wood.  But, I shouldn’t think about that.  Can’t.  I left that thousands of miles behind.  Bile’s still rising at the thought, though.  Still an ache sitting in my throat.

I remember the sand was hot, and crept into my boots, grinding like chipped glass into the soles of my feet.  My hands were clammy and pricked; splinters driven in deep and my sweat making them and my eyes burn.  I’d been toying with a gun in a shady place.  Accidentally rang off a shot into a beggar. I had to hide it.  That was the mantra in my head.  I had to keep it hidden.  I couldn’t shame my family, not when dad was ill and I’d have to go back and take over the farm soon.  No one saw the accident, and I could make a hidden grave.  My guilt was enough for that stranger’s memory; for his soul.

 
The damn sand kept caving in though, and the sun was sinking, night’s chill setting and freezing my sweat into a tight shell.  My joints threatened to seize and my tears stuck to my face.  I had to dig deep though to stop the sand caving in and the wind from exposing the body.  It was frustrating, but the anger was good.  It gave strength for digging and self-loathing, which was what was deserved.

 
Bloody rain.  Makes the mud sticky.  Clings to my knees like a hungry child when I try to stand where I’ve stumbled.  It’s almost liquid here at the bottom, creeping through my trousers, but no matter.  I’m already smothered in it.  The rain is carrying sweat into my eyes, burning them.  The pricking of tears in the corners too.  Stupid memories.  Fucking grave.

 
I’m not hiding a body here.  Just burying a sheep.  But it’s serving a reminder of what I am, what I’ve done.  That I’m a murderer looking after a child, the relationship hovering painfully between brother and son.  And soon he’ll be all I have left.  Grandfather’s dying, so soon it’ll just be me, Michael and the sheep.

 
I don’t realise I’m done filling it until the blade jars on flat ground.  All the soil’s moved and doing its job; covering, disguising, keeping the facts of the universe hidden from the eyes of those who are too young to see it.  Michael’s seen death before.  Never the sheep or lambs.  Someone always got there first.  Only small animals.  Hamsters.  Gerbils.  Little creatures.  Insignificant on one scale but enormous on another.  Cold, solid little things from where they were once warm and soft.  Death itself is one thing but hiding it away is another.  Watching dirt being dumped onto a bare body is something that few can watch or stand responsible for.  At first anyway.  A box or margarine tub makes it easier; you can pretend that it’s empty when you commit it to a soil prison.  Bury the box, not the creature that was once living and moving and eating and screwing to make other little living things.

 
I don’t know if it’s a good thing that I can do this; bury a body when I can see glassy eyes and bubbled wool.  That I’ve got the stomach for it.  Or maybe it’s bad because I have the detachment.  Is it less human of me?  Less love for our nature friends and all that ‘save the whales’ crap?  It hadn’t been like this in the desert though.  Then, I’d covered the eyes first.

 
The rain’s helped.  It’s stuck the mud together and sealed the joints.  I don’t have to worry about this one.  Don’t have to work for hours into the night to hide it; hide the evidence that shit happens in the universe and that you deal with it as best you can.

 
The rain’s finally letting up now, washing away some of the mud and most of the tears.  Still, grandfather’s going to be pissed at me; mud stained, sweat slicked and generally a sopping mess.  It’ll turn to understanding when I tell him that it’s because I was sticking an animal in the ground.  Making graves elicits compassion like that.

Handy that when guilt’s niggling: compassion.  Nice, fuzzy emotion that warms the heart and tells the soul little white lies that’ll let the body rest for at least a night before logic catches up and the mind actually realises.

 
Murderer.  Nice thing to remember when hiding death.

 
No one knows what happened last year, and I’ve been getting by fine with the guilt.  I think it’s changed me though.  Michael was surprised when I agreed to service the lamb so easily.  He’s an innocent boy; trusting.  I don’t know whether that needs to be preserved or corrected.

 
I need a shower.  A hot one, with some spicy smelling foam to rub into myself.  The grave’s a complete secret now, and I don’t think anyone will be able to find it.  I’ll know exactly where it is though; what secrets that little patch of ground holds.  I’ll deal with that later though.  Shower and then sleep. 

 
It was smooth ground.  No grass.  Burned up in the heat wave so the soil was naked.  Easier to hide that way.  Made even easier by wet mud and slithering rain, small mercies. 

 
Maybe it wasn’t really crap earth after all.

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