I don't really know what it means to be human. I don't think any of us do, really, but maybe we find a little bit of it now and again. I found a piece when I was eleven, and my rabbit died. We found him during the night, and my parents had me bury him in our garden. I remember trying to dig the hole, with this shovel that's almost as big as I am, and my face is covered in snot and tears, and I keep trying to slip away to my room and cry or do something—anything—else. And I remember my mother—she takes me aside and says to me: "You owe him this. This is the least you can do for him." And I took the shovel, and I dug the hole, deep enough so that nothing would get to him, and I covered him up, and I went back inside and cried myself to sleep. So I guess maybe humanity's about responsibility for other people, especially the ones that are depending on you. You've got to take care of them, as best you can, even when there's nothing else you can do for them except make sure the hole is six feet under. Or maybe it's about death. Or loss, or holding shovels that are too big for you. Maybe it's about shutting your mouth, and doing what needs to be done, and crying about it later. Maybe it's about burying a part of yourself with every dead body that you come across. Or maybe it's about hoping that there's more.
I hope there's more.
