Digging

Digging.

My childhood was spent digging.

At the beach, at the park, in the backyard, for scrabble tiles, and in between and under dirty and dusty popcorn kernels and ballpoint pen caps and lost teeth in the couch cushions.

I dug holes of various shapes and sizes using frustratingly flimsy plastic shovels, hands that quickly became cut and bruised and filthy, sticks and stones and broken bones and hired help.

These holes were tide pools, miniature civilizations for imaginary superheroes, houses of squirmy worms and wriggly bugs, and caves and caverns rife with hairy coins and sticky action figures from popular movies on the silver screen at a theatre near you.

Sand and dirt would fly as I dug to pass the time, because friends and acquaintances and those other kids who may someday become friends or acquaintances were doing it, because if I created a hole deep and wide enough I could hide there and escape or rent it out to some other kid who didn't have a hole of his own and I dug to dig, you dig?

Burrowing down creating crevices penetrating the planet, trying to finally get to Asia 'cause I was hungry for some take-out, looking for fossils and diamonds and buried bones to sell to dogs too worn out to excavate something to gnaw on themselves as well as other treasures from those who lived on this land before me.

My childhood was spent digging.

Digging.