Southern live oak (Quercus virginiana)

A childhood neighbor died this week after being bedridden for over two or more years, ‘surviving’ a lawnmower incident where it rolled on top of him and would have killed him had there been no medical intervention to drag out the suffering. I had reconnected with his brother, Scott, a friend, the year he lost his wife of 26 years and I had lost Dad. We were both very raw, gamy specimens of hollowed-out humans then, acrid in attitude, unforgiving and critical of the world - in mourning. He told me about Mike, his brother, and while I was not surprised about the incident, seeing how Mike would never know the meaning of ‘slow’ in this life, especially when it came to motorized vehicles (the mower flipped due to speeding while turning on an incline), I was empathetic to Scott’s pain. He still thinks it’s 1980, Scott said. He was helpless. I came to Howard today and asked if a memorial for Mike would be appropriate on this land. * Did you go to the funeral? * No. * You ask me this, why? * Oh, no reason.