I've been doomed for so long now that I don't remember what grace felt like. For you it was quick; for you it must have seemed like an end. In moments of terrible despair I wish our lots reversed, but then I am ashamed by my weakness, and the shame drives me onwards.
The few square feet of ground where you belong, where you should be resting, it eludes me. Sometimes I dream of it lifting itself up, grass and all, and moving across the landscape because I've brought you too close, because you're almost there, and re-planting itself in some far away spot. Sometimes I dream that — like us — it never stops moving, always avoiding the tip of my spade like a soldier dodges the spear-point.
It's only a dream, a nightmare: your intended earth remains undisturbed, waiting for me to find it. It's just a question of time.