Just Over the Ridge
by Josh Vogt
They’re looking for me again. My body, that is. For three weeks, dogs have snuffled by on the far side of the ridge. I’ve heard my name called and the rustle of feet kicking up the brush. I guess my picture has even been shown on television by now. I’m more popular in death than I ever was in life.
The helicopter searchlight falls twenty feet shy from where it would pick up a red scrap of shirt. The glint of a backpack zipper. A pink and white tennis shoe.
I watch the light, willing it to shift over here. Just knowing that my remains have been spotted would give me the closure I need to move on.
Then the beam whisks away, and this section is X-ed off on the map with a black, permanent marker.
Nobody calls my name anymore.
But I’m still here.