I’ve hid many things inside my hole. The hole I made for myself in the earth. Neighbors will tell you I should fill it in. Tell you I used a too-loud machine. To make a hole in the earth like that. Whatever. Not the inception of my hole that matters. It’s what I keep inside. A box of magazines, gun & print. Unusual trophy from some competition. First pass on my mystery novel. A kerosene lamp. My collection of the good guys’ wartime objects. Letters of no concern. Who cares. The hole contains more than its contents. In the hole I’ve found safety. Religion & ceremony. To the hole I’ve fed my nervous ramblings. 3 AM in the yard, on my knees & screaming. The hole has seen me at my absolute lowest, it’s true. Plastic bag of empty bottles. Losing my father. The last of my pension. Divorce. So I sit with it. The hole. The hole & me. The hole in me. Ha. That’s the thing. About the hole. It’s a mirror. Convex & spotless. Loss defining life.