There Is No Gold Here

When I was young, my father loved to tell me the story of the man who buried gold in his backyard. Worried about thieves, he drove a sign in the ground next to the freshly turned earth, one that read, “There is no gold here.” The next day, the gold was gone. My father loved to laugh at the man’s foolishness. I loved to hear my father laugh. Neither of us knew that years later, when my father buried my mother in the backyard, he would become the signpost planted in the soil, a scarecrow of blank eyes and jagged teeth warning me away, there is no gold here, there is no gold here. He stretched out his arms as if he was going to hug me, but I was no fool. I kicked him until he fell over, and began to dig for treasure with my hands, clawing into the soft, damp chocolate cookie crumbs, finding no gummy worms, no mother either. I kept digging. Soon, crows began to peck at my father’s straw face. They swallowed jelly eyes and spat out pearl teeth. There is no gold here became old ear, old ear, oh dear, oh dear. I dug until my fingers turned raw pink like wounds, like a heart. I dug until I became the gaping hole’s wriggling tongue, until my father’s laughter sounded like caws. Hao hao hao. Good good good.