We cut trails through the woods with rusted machetes we stole from the garage of that empty house down the street. We swung the machetes like skilled explorers making our way through the violent jungle, breaking branches, injuring tree trunks, slicing the dirt in front of us. You explored your way right into the path of a water moccasin, its fangs breaking through the back of your ankle, the holes in your flesh covered by mud and moss. And I dragged you all the way to your house, to your father, and I watched as your mom panicked, called an ambulance and smashed her hand in the screen door, the droplets of blood marking the way for the medics. And I listened to your dad blame me, and then I listened to my dad blame me, and I wondered if you would blame me. But you didn't. Because you died. LS
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