I remember when my brown hair was a different color and the curls that glowed around the curvature of my skull all at once grew out and never curled again.
I remember darting my eyes back and forth around my backyard, scanning its nooks and crannies for the dog’s brown shit and how peculiar it was that the pet in the situation might actually be me; not the dog.
I remember the colors of the moss that lived on the brown wood that was chopped and separated and carried and burned for warmth and gatherings and beer and friends and family and laughter and songs compiled into books that everyone loved and celebrated with hours of staring up towards the sky and watching the glistening of the stars so far.
I remember every shovel full of brown dirt dug up out of the ground to make enough space for the corpse that used to hold on to this world with a tight grip but slowly over the years began to let go because of a curiosity of what might come after this marginal existence.
Occasionally I think they are lucky. Sometimes I think they somehow made a mistake for leaving such a beautiful place with brown hair, brown shit, brown wood, and brown dirt.