Writing Prompt Wednesday
Even now, nearly midnight, the ground is still very warm as I sink my fingers into the earth. The moon is out, just a sliver of it. My favorite to look at, but little help to work by. At least the dirt is soft and easy to grasp. Dark, loamy. Good for growing things. Rich enough.
A strand of hair slides in front of my left eye, and I swipe it back behind my ear, most likely smudging my cheek in the process. It'll wash off easily enough.
Sitting back on my heels, I survey my work. The hole is almost perfectly round; I'm tempted to go back in and find an old compass to check, but resist. The bottom is rounded like a bowl. Three inches should be deep enough.
I set the reason for the hole in it and look at it for a minute--two--three. Long enough.
The dirt sifts through my fingers back into the hole, exactly as it was before. Not exactly, I guess. But close enough.
The ring is out of sight. I couldn't sell it, but I don't want it either. This is a compromise. Unlike him, will it be good enough?