By Suman Maity
Its roots didn’t run deep— the little Redbud tree in the yard.
The soil turned to dirt, crumbling in my hand,
the months of summer left no moisture in it.
The tiny sapling has withered— a few black twigs and a grey leaf.
One night storm winds pushed it over; that came before the rain.
Bio
Suman Maity is a faculty member at the Fay W. Boozman College of Public Health who reads mid-century American Beat literature between commitments and deadlines. This piece is about how grief does not disappear; it just learns to wear different clothes.