Stains

“Stains”

I touch the bronze latch, cold and rustic. My fingers tremble not wanting to open the faded light wood lid from its hinges. I turn my head away as a tear glides gently down. But my eyes, finding nothing else to be fixed to are averted back to the subject at hand.
My mind races to the first gaze I took upon the young golden wood of my box. I stood staring, motionless, the weight of my body daring to cave under my struggling legs. I reached within me grabbing hold of the object. I held it in my trembling hands. It was spattered with blood, with drops of new and some of old. My mind retreated to its comatose state and my hands were left alone holding the object. Eyes overwhelmed, knees hit the gravel ground and my hands did touch the bright bronze latch. Opening the lid I thrust the object forward rocking on my knees. The smooth lid fell after its prisoner, and my eyes softened but a bit. My feet glided beneath me and my body rose. I raised the box bright and fare and held it parallel to my shoulders. My feet carried me forward where I came to a man, who struggled to breathe. His feet did not touch the earth beneath Him; His arms were spread and His body, straight as the board behind Him. He heaved in a deep sigh and stared down at me, and then glared at the chest I carried. Hands still unsteady I lifted the wood above my head. Touch was lost as the box spread the dust of the dirt at my feet. The man stained with blood, drops of new and some of old, cried out in agony as His veins came out of hiding. Huge tears ran down His face to meet His beard. He let in a deep breath and looked once again upon my face and dove into my eyes.
Now here I sit fingers touching the cold latch. The faded wood stained with blood drops. “I can’t God, I don’t know what this is.” Tan warm skin touches my pale, cold hand. “You can’t but I can.” My head raises and my green eyes swirl in His deep brown pools, and together our hands raise the lid.

Lauren Whatley
April 24, 2008