The First Thing We Buried Sofia Platias   © Copyright 2026  Sofia Platias

Photo by Ideli Dalva Ferrari on Unsplash

and we spill out,

backpacks thumping, sneakers scraping

sun-warmed pavement

laughing about nothing that matters

and everything that does.

The day still clings to us,

sunscreen, sweat,

the golden hum of recess caught

in our hair.

Then we see her.

A flicker of green

on the driveway

too bright, too still,

a piece of June that forgot to fly away.

"Dont scare it," someone whispers,

like sleep is somethng fragile

we might break.

We circle close, 

careful,

holding our breath 

as if silence could keep her dreaming.

But she doesn't stir.

Not when we crouch.

Not when you reach out, 

your hand nervously hovering,

then touching.

Feathers softer than anything we've known,

a body lighter than it should be.

And then we understand.

The world tilts, just a little.

"She's dead," someone says,

and the word lands heavy, 

like it doesn't belong

in a perfect day like this.

We don't laugh anymore.

We don't know what to do

with our hands,

our voices, 

this sudden hollow space

where the afternoon used to be.

So we decide,

because children always decide something,

that she deserves more than ashphalt.

We carry her 

like something sacred,

like a library book borrowed

we must return properly.

The forest waits,

cool and dim,

a sanctuary of leaves and shadows.

We dig with sticks and small,

stubborn hands,

dirt packing under our nails,

none of us complaining. 

We gather flowers,

yellow, white, and a few crushed purple ones,

offered like apologies.

We lay her down gently.

"Her name should be Sage" you announce,

and we all nod, 

because it feels right,

because names make things real,

and we don't want her to dissapear.

We cover her slowly,

petal by petal,

handful by handful.

A smooth rock becomes a marker,

a memory made solid. 

We stand there longer than we need to,

longer than we understand,

the silence pressing in, 

but not empty.

On the walk back, 

we don't skip.

We don't race.

We don't shout.

Something has shifted,

a quiet knowing

we didn't have that morning.

And for days,

no, longer,

the laughter comes softer,

the sunlight feels different, 

like it carries a cold shadow now.

Sage stays with us.

In the way we look closer, 

at small, still things.

In the way we hold

what is alive

a little more carefully.

Because that day we learned 

that even something 

as bright as green

can go still,

and that love,

even in small hands, 

knows how to say goodbye.