Hard Rock

I grew up at the foot of a mountain that reaches the gods. When snow falls, bits of rock clang on
my tin roof in a discordant parade. I huddle under my table, knees to my chest, and wait for the noise
to stop. Sometimes, if the weather is decent, I tend to the tiny blue flowers growing at the mountain's
base. They peak up through the hard, cracked earth, and reach weakly to an obscured sun. I give them drops
of water from my can. It's a pointless endeavor. The labor of flowers is a fruitless one, because the snow
will always come again, into the cracks and crevices of the mountain, and the rocks will break free. The
avalanche always destroys my garden. I water it anyway. When the time comes, I hide under my table, hands
over my ears, and wait for the screaming to smash and dissipate into the cold wind that echoes around my
mountain, forever blocking out the sun.

Written June, 2021.

Take me back.

Take me home.