The bone is old. Not the oldest thing in this cluttered mess of a room, but not the newest by any means. It’s long and bleached white from years in the sun. there are a few cracks, but don’t cracks just show little fragments of the soul? It sits, among other relics of time passed, a white bone on a white shelf on a white wall in a white world. A little bit of story to ease the passing of time.
A long time ago a deer lay on the forest floor, blood seeping from a wound that would not heal. Slowly that single solitary spark that gives any living thing life faded and died. leaves fell from the great ash and oak and pine covering soft brown earth. Grass grew withered and died. Worms dug. Birds flew. The world moved through time and space. Seeds blew from the west and lay covering the long dead beast. flowers grew. Up through the skull, out of the empty distant sockets, between the ribs. People came and went. Trodding carelessly on sacred soil. Thousands of feet. Coming and going from places unknown to places more unknown. Until one day boots stopped. They were worn and dusty with a hole in the toe. Permanent marker doodles covered the thick souls. A hand reached down, chipped fingernails with flakes of last month’s nailpolish. The hands were rough on the bone’s smooth surface as they pulled it from the ground. They brushed it off and tucked it haphazardly into a leather bag, on top of a pile of papers. The bag was soft, brown and embroidered with cornflowers growing and weaving up it’s sides. Flowers so similar to the ones that had once covered the bone.
Now it sits. A reminder that nothing in this messy world is eternal. A shard of a story that no one will ever fully know. And here I sit. Recording these words. Telling a story that i know only a fraction of. Filling in the blanks with words spun from the silver mists of eternity. Telling a story no one will remember. Telling a piece of my story. Of the world’s story. Same as I always have. Weaving the story of life.