Bones

My body disinterred.

Yup. That sounds nice. It’s almost poetic. It’s much better than what I’d have to say otherwise, which is “They’re digging up some dried-up old bones that used to belong to me.”

Nobody wants to hear that.

It’s funny, watching them. It doesn’t even feel like me anymore. I can barely remember what it felt like, to have wind in my hair or to feel grass prickle against my bare feet. That was life.

And this is death.

I was beautiful once. They may never know it, but I was. I had long silky dark hair and big brown eyes. People used to turn around just to watch me walk down the street.

And now I’m just a pile of moldy bones.