Spring Rains
One April Sunday, several months after grandpa’s funeral, Dad and I drive in search of wild asparagus, cruising side roads near our home on the outskirts of Ann Arbor. He drives slowly and I soon spot a patch. Eagerly wading in, I trip and fall forward, face to face with a human skull. It’s eggshell white, with bright green spears grown up and out of empty eyes. Shaking, I call out “Dad!” He turns to see, pulls me up, blinds my eyes with one big hand, and turns me around. As we leave behind this ancient graveyard, he says, “The rains might have made it rise.”
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Ralph
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