Evening Passage

At dusk we laid our hamster in the ground.
Warm words were said by mother, father, child,
and then my son went to it, scooping dirt
until the hole was filled and stone in place,
the final act his careful forming
of the letters G-O-L-D-E-N
in blue Sharpie, glowing fresh and wet. Then
we trudged inside for dinner, leaving our
dear rodent nestled in his loosely wrapped
shroud, under seven inches of compressed,
cold earth.

His life was short, and tiny was
his death. But all through dinner we were kind
to one another. Edges softened. Eyes
acquired a shine. Outside, the crickets chirred.