What We Buried in the Backyard

The cat watched from the windowsill as David dug. Its golden eyes followed each thrust of the shovel, patient as judgment. Sarah wondered what the cat knew—how much it had heard through the thin walls of their marriage, the arguments that started like fireworks and ended like embers.

"You don't have to watch," David said, not looking up. Sweat darkened his shirt, mapping the geography of his effort.

"I know." She sat on the porch steps, wine glass in hand. The bottle stood beside her, half-empty. "I'm just making sure you don't hit the gas line again."

He paused, leaning on the shovel. His breath clouded in the autumn air. They'd buried their dog here three years ago. Now he was digging where the bear had scratched—deep furrows in the earth from some animal hunting for grubs or roots, or maybe just marking territory before moving on. That's what David called himself when he moved into the guest room: marking territory, staking a claim on half their life together.

The hole was deep enough now. He lifted out the box—plain wood, no inscription. Inside lay everything she'd given him: letters from before the marriage, the silver ring with the sphinx cameo she'd worn at their wedding, the photograph of them standing in the rain outside that tiny chapel in Nevada. She'd looked so happy then. Had he?

"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.

"Burn it," he said. "Tomorrow, when you're at work."

The cat jumped from the sill, landing softly in the grass. It approached the hole, sniffed the air, then looked back at them.

"You know," David said quietly, "my mother used to say the sphinx's riddle wasn't about what walks on four legs then two then four. She said it was about what gets forgotten." He looked at Sarah, really looked at her, for the first time in months. "She said the answer is: whatever you buried before you learned to miss it."

Sarah took his hand. His palm was calloused, dirt under the fingernails. The cat curled between them, purring, and for a moment they all three stayed like that—a family again, or almost, before the day ended and whatever they'd become began again.