Stained

By Dylan Sands

Calloused hands ran along the corners of the creation as he marvelled at its beauty. The culmination of his efforts was finally coming to a close. The sandpaper dug into the splintering wood, carving out its imperfections. With a sudden exhale, he blew away the dust from the lid. Light shone through the windows, cutting through the moody room. The particles of dust were visible now, floating through the air like leaves in autumn. He brushes away the memories of the past life of the wood, giving it a new name. He baptized his newly assembled container, washing it in a dark walnut covering. It spread onto the workstation, as his hands were stained with the umber markings. A symbol of his work could now be found on his skin; it was a part of him, for as long as he could not wash it off.

Spring has sprung, and the wooden shell is resting on the mantle. The chocolate color has darkened with time. The finish is scuffed, and the corners are not as precise as they used to be. He enters the same room, a different man. His eyes are sadder now, and his hands have become softer with time. His hands close onto the lid of the box, as he flips the latch open with his thumb. He softly rubs the surface on the top, no splinters to be gathered this time. The box of memories is not opened, but all of the memories locked inside were perfectly emerging through the soft touch of the maker. The stain is long gone from his hands, but the box holds something much more important than the stained hands that once molded it.

He makes his way into the bedroom, a king sized bed with light gray sheets sits in the middle. Something still sits inside the box, waiting to be reclaimed. The house feels empty, like it is missing an important piece. He hates the house; all it holds for him is a collection of memories of what has been lost. The missing piece has taken away his feeling of comfort; this house no longer treats him like a home. He retires into the bed, his bed. He pulls the covers over himself, resting on the left side of bed, careful not to reach across the centerline of the mattress. Amidst his sadness, he drifts into the comfort of rest. In his dreams, she is there to meet him again, as she is every night. In sleep is the only time he can be reunited with her.

Out in the living room, resting on the mantle, is the stained wooden box, standing tall. Through the lid of the box, on a stack of old notes and photographs lays a small shining object. A beautiful golden band, a promise of forever, lies in the box. It’s the only thing that he will have forever.