Bamboo

My father planted the bamboo, voracious growth to eat the yard. I grew in the yard, wild and untamed. We gobbled up the sun, the time, and space he wanted for himself. Sweaty and swearing, he hacked away at what he didn’t want. Unable to eradicate, he tried escape.

Now he’s buried next to me.

He can’t flee

what he planted.

published in The Interstitial