Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse

(Short)

We walked through the yard searching for the shovel and pickaxe. There was a box behind a broken and forgotten recliner. In August, even after the sun has set, the air is humid and warm. Our foreheads perspired with sweat as we searched. I also looked for flowers to place on her grave, but flowers were few and far between. I could only find things such as lavender and a weed with tiny white flowers. They were only half blooming. Half-grown flowers for a half-grown corpse. When we found the tools, we had to climb over an old half-broken wire fence. He broke the hard, dry ground and dug a shallow grave. With each swing of the pickaxe he gasped for breath. I stood watching in sandals half-covered in poison oak. In my hands was the tiniest bouquet of half-blooming weeds I had ever seen. I placed them on her grave and cried. I did not cry because she was dead, I cried because she deserved more than half-grown flowers. She deserved more than to die in a half-grown body.