" The last thing I see before the sinkhole buries me alive is the pattern the branches of the White Oak make against the cloudless Midwestern sky. A web, I would remember later and realize what it meant - but now I lie faceup in my father's grave as soil rains down on me. My hands cover the seeds embriodered into my dress, although it doesn't make much sense, trying to protect seeds from burial. They will live after I die, their shells cracking open as the stems and roots emerge.
As the dirt piles on top of me, I curse my..."