The Hole

“Rami” ©️2026 Terrance W LaCrosse

I didn’t measure it.

That would’ve made it feel like a chore.

Like it was something I could finish.

Still, I just… started digging.

I think of Stephen King

Specifically, his famous line,

"The soil of a man's heart is stonier, Louis,"

I reflect now on the book's themes of grief,

All those ghostly consequences of messing with death.

The first break in the ground

was louder than it should have been.

Nothing booming.

More like something giving way,

Something that held no plans to move.

The clay resists;

There’s something here that fights back a little, though it’s not strong enough to hold back the tears.

Packed down from all those years I didn’t keep track of.

Weather that I stood inside of

and still missed somehow.

The ground doesn’t want to open.

I get that.

I thought I’d cry right away.

Isn’t that how it goes?

You drop to your knees.

You bargain.

You say things out loud that

you’d be embarrassed to repeat later.

Still, nothing.

Just stillness

And the sound of metal

and breath

and something in my chest,

like the soil,

trying not to move.

I keep digging.

Not because it helps.

But because stopping means

I’d have to stand here

with nothing in my hands

and I don’t trust

what I’d notice

or what I’ll do

if I did.

The hole starts taking shape.

Which is strange,

because the thing it’s for

doesn’t have one anymore.

Only the fluidity of shade and shadow.

I almost stopped there.

Almost.

There’s more dirt than there should be.

It piles up beside me

like I’ve uncovered something bigger

than what I remember losing.

That doesn’t seem fair.

But then again—

nothing about these things ever does.

I check the depth again

without meaning to.

Like there’s a right answer.

Like someone’s going to come out

and say,

“Yeah… that should do it.”

No one does.

Of course no one does.

Tears and snot soak the ground.

My hands are starting to shake now.

Just enough

so that the shovel doesn’t land

exactly where I think it will.

Blisters forming in places

that used to be tougher.

I notice that.

I don’t follow it.

This isn’t about me,

But her.

Because this is the last thing

I get to do for her.

And I need to do it right.

Even if I don’t know

what “right” is anymore.

I smooth the edges.

That’s the part that matters to me.

I don’t know why.

Maybe because she always found

the softest place in the room

without asking.

Maybe because she trusted me

to do it right.

I sit back for a second.

Look at it.

This hole.

This… attempt at a love

Lost.

And it hits me—

quietly, and not kindly at all.

this was never going to hold

what I thought it would.

There isn’t a version of this hole

deep enough

for that.

But maybe—

maybe it can hold her.

I go inside.

The house is all wrong.

It isn’t empty, exactly.

Just… missing a sound

I didn’t know I have memorized.

She’s where I left her.

Of course she is.

That lands harder than anything so far.

I pick her up.

And this is the part

no one talks about—

the weight is the same

but it isn’t.

There’s no leaning into it.

No small adjustment

to meet me halfway.

Just… weight.

Hers

And mine to carry now.

I bring her out.

Carefully.

Still careful.

Like there’s something left

to protect.

I lower her down

into the space I carved out of stone.

Her blanket. Her favorite pillow.

And for a second—

just for one second,

everything in me

goes completely still.

Quiet.

Like even this grief

needs a moment of silence

to understand

what just happened.

I start covering her.

Slowly.

Too slow.

Each shovel feels like

I’m deciding it again.

And I hate that.

I hate that it takes

more than one more time.

There’s a sound

when dirt hits—

softer than I expected.

That stays with me.

I wish it didn’t.

I keep going.

Because stopping now

would be worse.

Because halfway

is not a place

you leave someone you love.

Eventually

the ground will be flat again.

Like nothing ever happened here.

Like I didn’t just take

something that mattered

and put it where I can no longer reach it.

One day, the hole will be gone.

But the one in my chest—

Will remain

Wider, if I’m being honest.

Still quieter.

For now.

I think about Mr King,

His story.

Our story.

I stand there longer than I need to.

Like she just might come back out

if I wait long enough.

Like I’ve misunderstood

how any of this works.

All this duty.

All this ritual.

It doesn’t fill the hole in my heart

Of course, it wouldn’t.

It just gave it somewhere else

to go.

“Hole”

©️2026 Terrance W LaCrosse