I’ll never forget finding it there on the barn floor. It wasn’t but a month old, so young that you couldn’t hear it scream unless you held it up close to your ear. I guess you could call it a scream. It took me a little while to figure out why it couldn’t move. How did it get up there? I guess they don’t always land on their feet when they are that small. That tiny. I didn’t get help right away, I just stared in its panicky little eyes and soaked it in my tears like I was doing it a favor. I wanted it to see me mourn, to know that someone cared I guess. I wanted to connect. I wanted to love it, but felt guilty because I couldn’t figure out how to make myself. I didnt understand why we couldn’t help, why he never even tried. Straight for the shovel. Just like that. The first one didn’t work, I could see a little piece of its brain and its screams became audible even from a few feet away. So did my weeping. He looked at me, expressionless, but I knew what he was thinking. I felt guilty again. The second one did the trick. No more screams. One scoop was all it took to make the hole. We went inside and made grilled cheese and I watched the Rocky movie that had Mr. T in it and cried ocassionaly until I fell asleep. 
I ran over an armadillo on accident last week. The girl I was with put her hands over her mouth and shrieked. I made a joke about armadillo heaven to calm her down and she giggled a little. I wish I liked her more. 


One Response to “Grilled Cheese (prose by Luke GRIMES)”
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