In the forest we found a small red well, an empty pupil, a bucket with petals. Some of us could fit our entire hands inside of it. Some of us could fit our heads. We spread our arms to haul it from the ground. It seemed to weigh the weight of a child, though none of us had seen one in a while. They looked like us, said someone, only small. Like dolls, said someone else. We all remembered the weight of them on our laps, our knees. We remembered building them houses in the trees, balancing their soft mass above us as we lay on the leaves. But no one could conjure the pitch of their voices or the shape of their cheeks. And we found that no one wanted to let the flower go, so we took turns hefting it up and down the forest’s uneven aisles. Some of us bore it better than others. Some of us didn’t even gag at the body bag smell. I, for one, held no perfumed rag to my nose, dreamt of no sweet roses. When the flies arrived, I opened my mouth as wide as it would go.