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.
