My Boy Builds Coffins

            Coffins line the walls of the dim basement. Though interchanged day by day and week by week, they’ve always been there.

Just as my boy.

            He can’t make dressers tables or chairs. From the day he could hold a hammer and nail, he has only built coffins.

He wipes the sweat from his brow, but a bead escapes to trail from his temple, over those high cheekbones to his proud chin to dangle a moment before falling to the dry cherry wood grain below.

Some say it’s a blessing, most say it a curse, from sun up to sundown, day by day, he hunches over his task.

Out the single window above his head, the sun dips lower in the sky, falling out of sight. He glances up, lays down his hammer and nails, and rises to inspect his handiwork by candle light. It’s flawless, of course. His hands are on his hips, a critical look upon his face.

Kings, queens, gypsies, beggars, and liars- all are his patrons. He can’t turn them away, for he’s so eager to please.

This one is large enough for two. Ornate roses and vines are carved delicately into a border. However, the tag in the center is empty.

Each are distinctly unique, he’s never made two of the same.

He runs a hand through the dark locks of his hair, pulling loose tangles and knots, revealing his slate grey eyes. The lingering desire leaves him in constant torment.

            It’s a shame that each piece he puts his love and care into is thrown to the ground, never to be seen again.

            Finally, he meets my eyes as I stand midway on the staircase. Exhaustion is written upon his brow and on his hands. Our eyes lock for a moment before I turn my back to him, and climb the creaky wooden stairs. I know he won’t follow.

            It just isn’t fair.

He returns to his work- sanding and finishing the wood, applying the hinges. It’s not long before it’s complete, gleaming with fresh gloss. I return to stand beside him. Silence passes between us as he gazes longingly at his latest masterpiece.

For better or worse, my boy builds coffins.

My fingers twine around his calloused hand, tenderly feeling each scar. Beneath the candles, among the dust, wood and tools, he pulls me down with him into the coffin. I lie down and cross my arms over my chest.

He’s built one for himself.

He pulls the lid over, submerging us in darkness. I can hear his heart beat within his chest. I can feel it sync up with my own. The air rushes out of his lungs as if he’s been holding his breath for all his life. He turns his face toward mine, his warm breath upon my cheek. I meet his unseen gaze, and feel peace.

One for me too.

I feel the soft caress of his lips over mine before I fall into a deep sleep.

One of these days he’ll build one for you. 

Reviews

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Nice. You build the world and circumstance around the story. I love how the title ushers us into the idea of what's going. Very good writing here. I love the end. It's almost poetic.