The day after it happened, Doc woke up with the sun. He
reached out each limb, carefully and deliberately stretching and limbering one
after the other, for these were the tools of his trade and he had to look after
them. His chiseled, hard-as-rock muscles were not the result of hours at the
gym pumping iron, but instead were built the old-fashioned way – pushing iron -
shovels, axes and picks in endless pursuit of precious metals. Work in the
mines was hard but rewarding. He felt the ache each night, oh boy did he feel
that ache, but woke each morning renewed and ready to do it all over again. Work
was not some mental escape from reality, nor was it just a means to an end, but
a real reason to get up each morning.
He reached back above his head, grabbed the wrought iron
headboard with both hands and deftly brought his legs up and out of bed in one
fluid movement. Just as his legs touched the ground, he remembered. His legs
buckled under him and he collapsed to the ground in a heap. His heart broke
anew into a thousand pieces. His throat gagged at the volume of a torturous wail,
which he swallowed quickly down again, hard. And then swallowed again. He
wouldn’t let the others see his weakness. After all, men are strong and men don’t
cry. Oh to hell with that he decided and let the wail erupt, where it reverberated
around the room, shattering windows, slamming doors and chasing the silence
from every corner. Like an alarm clock, the voice of his pain woke the others. In
a slow motion horror, he could see reality choking the peace from their faces
as they awoke from their dream-filled slumber, where she was again with them.
They all sat around in shock, no one verbalizing what they
were all feeling. There were no words. It was inconceivable that someone so
vital, so full of life was now without it, and they were again without her. Their
lives had changed so much in that short time they had been blessed by her existence.
Each man sneaked a glance at each other as to ask the question, but in one look
found their own private horror reflected. The question died without anyone
having to force out the answer. They
found themselves unable to perform even the simplest task. Socks were missing;
they didn’t have the energy to look for them. The color of their t-shirt they
dragged over their heads no longer mattered as their world was black and white.
She had brought the color with her, and taken it when she left. Suddenly no-one could remember how to tie
their boots or where the pots were kept for the breakfast. Somehow they got through
the meal, be it in a dissociative haze, but the bland, stodgy porridge sat
heavy in their stomach and provided little nourishment where they really needed
it.
Doc forced himself to speak, “There’s work to be done boys,
and no one else to do it but us. She would have wanted us to carry on. ” Blank
stares were punctuated with accusatory glares. He had mentioned the unmentionable,
which made it real as if it wasn’t already.
“Right, boys. Right?” He needed some acknowledgement and agreement, but
these were shells of the characters he used to know, including himself. But he
had to lead by example and to be strong, because being strong was the only
choice he had. He knew what he must do. He handed out the shovels and picks.
One, two, three, four, five, six and finally his own. One tool was left, and
they were again silent, staring at the broom that remained owner-less and purposeless.
He couldn’t find the strength to move
the solitary tool from where it lay in full view, between them and the door. It
now weighed one thousand pounds and no amount of pumping iron could have strengthened
him enough for the task.
He flexed and threw his own shovel to his shoulder, hoisting
it high. The words to their regular
marching song stuck in his throat like a chunk of tainted apple. But he lifted
one leaden foot and thudded it down in front of him. Then repeated it with the
other. The second step was a little easier. He tentatively tried another and
found he could do this, he had to. Looking behind, he saw the others had fallen
in behind and, albeit robotically, were trudging the same automatic march. They
made it past the broom and out the front door. Out the front door to where
the wicked world waited. People who had known and loved her, and would demand of
them the same explanation over and over. Everyday places forever imprinted by
her presence, which would now be impossible to face. But first they must honor
her and that is what they would do. With their bare hands they would collect
the silver that would frame her, the gold that would amplify her magnificence.
With their breath they would mold the crystal that would encase her. But their
heart would be the glass mountain, holding her beauty on display for all eternity.
He turned to the others, and stated
firmly, leaving no opportunity for disavowal “ Hi Ho, Boys, looks like we have
some hard work to do.”
The CAPTURE YOUR GRIEF Photographic Challenge from CarlyMarie Project Heal is part of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness
Month – October 2013 and I am making it more personal for me by taking a
photo and then using it to create a short story.
Take your own picture, write your own words, take your own journey of healing - October 2013 #captureyourgrief ….
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