The Twig

Gregg Garmisa

In that damned cemetery, I searched for a few pebbles to leave at my father’s headstone in the tradition — its roots long ago forgotten — of my non-practiced faith. Finding neither spiritual inspiration nor rocks, I picked up an old, scraggly, forlorn twig and started to peel. The first strip, long, textured and multi-layered, I lay along the words “loving husband.” The second, too short, less jagged, along “beloved father.” The third, a tiny wisp, floated knowingly to “adoring grandfather.” After angrily shredding bark a while longer, the contours of a rough-hewn, yellowed blade began to take shape and I saw myself stabbing back at all those who put that man in his grave. Then, I glanced up, inhaled the surrounding spring scents and finally knew. Gently, I bent down and used the coarse edge to brush away the dirt stuck to our family name.