Ashes of Time, by Carlos

Having been freshly purified by a late spring rain, the crisp air sparkled. Although he had better things to do than go down to the dark, claustrophobic storm cellar, he knew it was time to unleash the bittersweet longings that with the passage of time had become infected like a festering sore. The moment had come to whittle out the once sweet flesh that had gangrened ever so slowly. He had found every reason that morning to avoid descending into that dank basement, uncertain as to whether he had the mettle to confront his past. In a sense, he was decidedly hopeful, for he was finally determined to expunge the pleasures of his youth, pleasures that had morphed into ghostly silhouettes from a charnel house. Yet, he was afraid, for by finally exorcising the dancing demons, he remained dubious as to whether blissful light long denied would shine through.

He unlocked the basement door and pulled at the storm doors, casting his shadow into the darkened crypt like an angel with uplifted arms. He bit his lip and firmed up his resolve as delicious, yet dead, memories deluged him like a wintry blast of Arctic air. Descending down into the abyss, his fingers brushed the settled dust from the spines of long-abandoned volumes of prose and poetry. Motes of dust gyrated like phosphorescent pollen riding spears of golden sunlight that now flooded the basement. Like tattered Victorian lace, filigreed cobwebs draped down from shelves that once held sweet summer preserves and briny pickles. Undaunted, he directed himself to the back of the basement where earlier he had secretly hidden a solid box. Subconsciously, he must have believed that as long as the contents reposed in peace, some day they would resurrect like Lazarus emerging from the tomb. He released the clasp of the small coffin-like box, and was greeted by the olfactory assault of yellowing paper, air-deprived cloth, and desiccated rose petals, all fragile to the touch.

As he gently brushed the sheaves of paper and the other vestiges of his lost past with his fingertips, time yawned sluggishly as though from a midwinter slumber. He picked up a ribbon-festooned pack of letters, and as he unraveled the knot, the pages fell from his hand like wind-propelled maple wingnuts, He read words penned when he was young, words that spoke of sensual delight, undying devotion and youth eternal. Alas, time proved false, like a sundial on a moonless night.  Barely decipherable inscriptions promised the sweet aroma of new mown grass, promises that dissipated with the wind. Then, he pulled out a time-ravished linen shirt. Worn one memorable evening as the sun descended at its western horizon, the fabric had once been the repository of spicy cologne intermingled with musky summer sweat. The aroma was no more; nothing of that past lingered except for the soft bitterness of slow decay. Putting down the vignettes of his youth, mirages spiraled before him. He felt the sinewy arms of the first man who had ever held him in a manly embrace. Deteriorating photographs of two, smiling luxuriously at each other, peered back. The pictures catapulted him back like a time traveler to those days when strawberries tasted of vintage crème liqueur and carnations sported a clove-like aroma. He smiled knowing that in spite of ruptured dreams, he was no longer confined by guilty pleasure within a hermetically sealed casket. In confronting the dark shadows of his past, his former adversarial friend has taken flight.

Placing the contents back into the box, he picked it up and gently cradled it in his arms. Retracing his steps, he set his sights on a smoldering fire pit he has previously prepared. Letters and photos shriveled into themselves as he cast them into the coals. Sparks pirouetted up into the heavens like light-drenched fireflies. Scissors in hand, he mutilated the linen shirt and cast the flimsy pieces into the hungry flames. Soon enough, the conflagration died down. He bide the memories adieu, grateful for pleasures they had once offered, but no longer burdened by the guilt of unfulfilled longings. Shovel in hand he entombed the ashes within a mantle of earth, Blessing himself for having had the courage to walk in the light of a new sun, he arose. As he walked away, he felt newly restored. He felt a soothing balm that healed the toxic past to which he had clung. He felt cells emerging from within him as zygote coalesced into awaiting embryo. He would no longer hold on to the guilty pleasures of nights that shunned the light of dawn.

© May 2015

About the Author 

Cervantes wrote, “I know who I am and who I may choose to be.”  In spite of my constant quest to live up to this proposition, I often falter.  I am a man who has been defined as sensitive, intuitive, and altruistic, but I have also been defined as being too shy, too retrospective, too pragmatic.  Something I know to be true. I am a survivor, a contradictory balance of a realist and a dreamer, and on occasions, quite charming.  Nevertheless, I often ask Spirit to keep His arms around my shoulder and His hand over my mouth.  My heroes range from Henry David Thoreau to Sheldon Cooper, and I always have time to watch Big Bang Theory or Under the Tuscan Sun.  I am a pragmatic romantic and a consummate lover of ideas and words, nature and time.  My beloved husband and our three rambunctious cocker spaniels are the souls that populate my heart. I could spend the rest of my life restoring our Victorian home, planting tomatoes, and lying under coconut palms on tropical sands.  I believe in Spirit, and have zero tolerance for irresponsibility, victim’s mentalities, political and religious orthodoxy, and intentional cruelty.  I am always on the look-out for friends, people who find that life just doesn’t get any better than breaking bread together and finding humor in the world around us.