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[ECHOES CHAT] [EchoesExpressions Gift Shop!] [Authors Bookstore!]  Today the ants are busy beside my front steps, weaving in and out of the hill they’re building. I watch them emerge and— like everything I’ve forgotten—disappear into the subterranean, a world made by displacement. In the cemetery last June, I circled, lost— weeds and grass grown up all around— the landscape blurred and waving. At my mother’s grave, ants streamed in and out like arteries, a tiny hill rising above her untended plot. Bit by bit, red dirt piled up, spread like a rash on the grass; I watched a long time the ants’ determined work, how they brought up soil of which she will be part, and placed it before me. Believe me when I say I’ve tried not to begrudge them their industry, this reminder of what I haven’t done. Even now, the mound is a blister on my heart, a red and humming swarm. © Natasha Trethewey
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