Something of the day

The elderly man, dressed in earth tone slacks and a red jacket, sits in a chair scratching his beard and smoking his pipe. He rocks on his heels back and forward to the beat and motion of the procession approaching his yard. They approach, wading through the sea of green.

Twelve men, dressed in suits of colors ranging from brown to black, knee deep, head to the pier the elderly man guards. They part ways when they approach the wooden boat, six one way, six the other. And as each man passes the center, he taps a circle around the breathing hole. The child knocks back four, five times, and each man engraves his name at the bottom of the box.

The twelve line up and bow to the man of gray and old. He stares at the blank faces; he stares at the expressionless smiles, and the determinable mumbles. They rock forward and back on their heels.



There is a momentary pause…



The older man nods, and the twelve turn and grab the box. They lift, and strain, and carry the weightless burden onwards. They trek, and they walk, and they waltz and move. They wonder until the water is at their chest, and they float with the box.

The cracks give way, and the box sinks. Down and down, they go, down and down they flow. To the bottom of the sea, to the ground beneath the surface they travel. Bubbles from drowning lungs choke and struggle to the surface. They pop, and purge the air of the cleansed and stressed purity.

The elderly man stands and watches as the last bubble escapes the grasp of the sea and see. He scratches the beard, and puffs the pipe, he twirls on his heel, and he enters the home.