My dad was pretty handy, and he made me a nice, large sandbox when I was about 3-years old. He was very proud of it and I'm sure he pictured me, his sweet daughter, building sandcastles and playing in it for hours. It was filled with nice, clean sand and ready for play. Unfortunately, the very day that the sandbox was filled I was running loose on the property and found a bee that was sucking in his last breath. I did what any normal child would do. I prayed. I prayed for the bee—please, God let this bee live. Let her see her children progress in the world, and please let her say goodbye to the queen. When I saw that my prayers were in vain, and the bee had indeed gone to the other side I sang my song of life and death (I wish I could remember the songs I used to sing all the time), and I buried her with ceremonious glory, covering the grave with flowers and maybe even shedding a tear. The graveyard? You guessed it. My sandbox. And how could I play ever in a place of rest for the dead? Before long, alongside of Ms. Bee was Mrs. Mouse, and perhaps a bird or two. I remember my cousin coming over and her being disgusted that I had desecrated our play area with my morbid obsession with ceremonious service to the dead. The sandbox was rendered unusable, and I’m sure my dad never noticed.
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July 2023
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