Giants

Two devout giants lean idly against each other, and it's been a while since they ever thought of standing upright--so infers the moss teeming throughout their frame aghast.
I watch them, and it is spring, and everything is green. My father tells me that these giants aren't dead--that their souls are hibernating--

"Pervasively exploring further depths," he told me, rocking back and forth in his chair, writing down inane infrastructures to some ecstatic state.

I asked him if he ever spoke to them--what did they say, I asked?

"Giants are heavy. They said heavy things. I was a boy your age, come to think--the giants did a lot for us, for no other reason then they were bored, they said. They were mischievous, but never destructive. They liked to laugh. They liked to see us laugh."

His face turned stark.

"I try to forget them, but I miss them. But I still try to forget them."

I joined his silence.

Two stark giants, massive than our redwoods, in our shape, in our form--yet a thousand times greater, lean against each other, forming some grand structure that exhumes the sunset once every year. But everyone is jaded now. No one cares.

My father said it just hurts and he'd rather tend to his sketch pad.
I watch though.

I am seemingly the only one who wants to remember, although no one will ever tell me what happened. I have asked everyone. I have stared wildly into their great heights, seeing the dew form, again--the frost form, again--the sweat yield, again. A giant man, a giant woman, backs tilted towards each other--everyone knows too much to remember, I suppose--and I know too little to forget.