spade raze we had a big backyard. not big enough to get lost in, but almost. there was a pond with a bunch of goldfish in it. i used to wonder where they went in the winter. how did they breathe under the frozen water? i always looked for them in the spring, but they weren't there when the water thawed. no one told me what happened to them. i decided those orange friends rose up out of the ice when i wasn't looking. they became little living ghosts that swam through the cold air before landing in someone else's pond. then i got older and i understood. they weren't coming back. they weren't anywhere. they were dead. the winter killed them. your father was in the garden, weeding with a spade, when he hit something that wasn't dirt or a root. it was a baby rabbit. he didn't see it until it was too late. he put the rabbit in a shoebox. it was white. it would have been the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen if one of its feet wasn't almost gone. it was just a hinge. blood pooled around the place where bone and muscle and fur didn't meet anymore and wouldn't meet again. you asked if the rabbit would be okay. your father said we'd take it to the vet. it didn't look hurt or afraid. it only moved when it breathed. it stared right at you with its red eyes. you held your fingers against its neck. you said its heart was beating so fast. it was dead before we left the house. you started to cry. you looked up at me and ​asked, "why do things have to die?" i didn't know what to tell you. i still don't. 210916 what's it to you? who go blather from