It starts innocent enough, but I know
better. It’s a small home, quiet and tenderly lit by soft afternoon
sun. The living room is dated in its décor, but the bones are quite
striking; baseboard and crown molding as dated as the structure, hardwood
floors rich like maple syrup, windows that are beautiful portals,
representing the loving soul the home possesses, and a fireplace mantel, solid
and large, intricately carved, and impeccably cared for by an appreciative
eye. Lining the mantel are family photographs in ornate picture frames.
The center photo is of a young boy, no more than ten, his brown hair shaggy and
cut in a style popular for the time. He smiles so sweetly and has such
life in his eyes, like two wells, deep and plenty with life. My stomach
drops as I stare at the photo and my head aches with a whirl of garbled words
and cries and I feel a crushing pain in my heart; a break I’d never
known. I hear petite steps on a linoleum kitchen floor, and look towards
the rhythm…
It’s a dense wood, silvery tree trunks and
golden leaves rustling in the cold wind, the earth carpeted in the very same
amber glowing death. Blue jay screams are echoing and the gray sky feels
infinite in its unapologetic stare. My steps crunch and crackle as I’m
directed, not of my own accord, to a thicker, shaded nook. My eyes see
the rock shelf plastered in autumn’s treasure, and as I stand atop it I see
that from a distant eye it masks a five to six foot drop. I don’t dare
the jump, it’s not needed…I found what I was meant to see. Tucked in the
small hollow beneath the rock shelf, is the small, crumpled body of a boy, the
wells long dry…
E.A. O'Connell
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