There’s something to having to dig the hole to bury your dead. It’s holding the shovel, swinging the pickax, the sound of you knocking on the earth and digging the door.
Even if it’s a small hole, no bigger than you if you’d curled up nice and tight. It’s feeling the weight of the wood and the steel and the mortality in your hands.
Digging the holes for your dead, I feel, is a lot like making something. Because every hole you dig, you throw in a piece of yourself before you cover it back up again.
In this way, maybe, we might hope to have enough of ourselves already in the earth when it comes time for us to climb in. That we might already know the smell of the dust and the cool darkness and the weight of the world above.
There’s something to having to dig the holes to bury our dead.