The soil feels firm unlike it used to be, silty. A bit moisture is there but not as before. The spade requires more pressure, it has turned resistive. Once who engulfed all digits of foot calmly without any demur. The cold, squashy bed caressed by a bulk of water. Foot imprints of us never remained, memories did. Us, we three, the authors of murkiness. A non swimmer like me used to write it near the banks, always. Time, it brings invaders, in a way beneficial or the other detrimental. Our zeal of summers also got flattened or invaded along with our time, but with soil, new ones.
Katib's voice feels far away. From this level, yeah, 5 feet under the ground.
: "What else has left?" I reply by resting the spade on my shoulder.
: He says again, "The procedures have started. His body has been taken for bathing and all."