The Question

The Question

Here I lay, waiting, wondering, my body a stench beyond what could be described as wretched. I awoke just hours ago inside this pine box. I tried to knock, as if on a door but, was unable to move my hand. I thought, “How silly of me. It is not as if I am at a door, unless this is the door to purgatory!” I shuddered to think this dark place I find myself in was my…..resting place. The thought of my untimely demise left me unnerved to my very core, if I still had a core. 

I searched the deepest corners of my mind trying to remember with whom I’d last been and where, nothing. I thought to myself, “What did I eat last? Perhaps it was that which put me here in the deepest darkness I’ve ever come to know? Maybe I was with a friend, drinking gaily at the local pub, fell in a drunken stupor, hit my head and bled to death there on a filthy tavern floor? I gasped at the notion, unable to accept such a fate. I found myself distracted in the thought that a pint might be just the thing to bring me around so that I could move my arms and hands but then I remembered the use of my appendages was suspended at the present! Blast!

It occurred to me in the midst of my fitful epiphany that even though I no longer had the use of my arms, hands or fingers, perhaps I could wiggle my toes or move my legs! I asked myself, “Do I dare try? Will it make me feel strong and powerful enough to move heaven and earth, literally? Or, will being able to move the lower part of me create a panic? Men have gone mad with panic, tearing at their hair and screaming maniacally down the street, yelling at gas lamp post and constable, alike. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to handle myself if I can move my lower parts. 

Maybe, I can crane my neck about, to see what is on either side of me. Though, I couldn’t see a hand in front of my face if I had such ability. I gathered my will and innermost strength, like that of a determined predator ready to pounce on its prey in hopes of turning even slightly. Disappointment raked through me like a frigid wind deep in December. Why can I not move?! This dismal place, it’s dark, damp and there’s not a sound in my head but that of my own pathetic voice. Wait! It’s damp. How do I know that it’s damp? I can smell it! I can DEFINITELY smell it, like the scent of earth just before a drought-breaking rain. Oh, great joy! I am not in purgatory! Oh, my soul leaps with delight in knowing I have not arrived at my eternal demise. If this is not the door to hellfire, where am I? Surely, this dark place cannot be heavenly. Preachers have shouted from the rooftops about those who perish in their sin, spending all time bound up with evil. Yet, the pious, righteous man will find a palace amongst their Creator, a place of peace. 

This place is neither hot as hell nor comforting as a place of peace. It is neither! Not one man worth his salt has spoken of this, this formidable enemy of nothingness. Perhaps this is what is meant when I’ve heard tell around the Sunday dinner tables of upright men who warn of God spewing the lukewarm out of His mouth. Is this what is to become of me, for eternity, spurned from the mouth of God for never having had the courage to announce my faith nor denounce the crass, lewd, lasciviousness of the common tavern variety? Oh, how this wounds me to think that I’ve been cast out to this miniscule abyss, the ache within driving the knife of regret yet deeper. How shall I recover? No spirit could drive this medicine down to digest in my innermost part. How a mother would mourn such a loss, to know her son waited a day too long to choose the light. Oh, how a father would scold his only begotten for making haste for something so simple that countless thousands before him accomplished with ease and wore with grace. 

But wait, maybe….perhaps, I could beg my Creator’s forgiveness? Clergy have written volumes on the forgiveness of misdeeds. Is it ever too late for a man to account for his misgivings?  What if this place is so far displaced that Creator cannot hear? What if….my voice too small to be hearkened to as some have said? 

What’s that I hear, way off in the distance, a commotion? Straining in the quiet, could it be thunderous hooves bringing victors to spring me from my trap? Would it be too much to hope that it be loved ones struck with worry to find me here? Oh, to be embraced once more by the jolly and gay, to warm by firelight, enjoy the scent of a fine dinner display. 

Here! Here lads, strapping men! Dig! Dig! Surely, they’ll have me up soon? But wait, what if they pluck earth in the wrong spot? Is it daylight or dark? How can I bear the straggling hands of time plod on so slowly? I tried to raise my hands so they might hear me beat the box but I must be wedged so tight, limbs asleep. Oh, sweet joy ringing in my ears and every part of my being as I hear the thud of footsteps above. 

What is that scent, pure and sweet? Has mother nature brought the fragrant gift of sweet springtime so early? Is that the sweet smell of flowers? What a homecoming this shall be to be met and welcomed with such delicate beauty. 

I incline my ear, what’s that I hear? A woman, her voice lifts towards the heavens, a mournful sad song. Why could this be? Springtime is filled with wide-eyed blooms and budding trees, nature gracing the landscape with evidence of a Masterful hand.

What could be this woman’s dismay? Perhaps some cad who turned her away? Maybe she’s lost, scared or alone? Or could it be her love’s gone on? Oh the weeping, sadness and tears. How I feel her sadness so fully. Peculiar that, a connection. Do I know her well? If I were near her, she would be consoled, offering her my arm, “Don’t worry Miss, you’ll be together again some….day.”

Surely my wits are not about me. Do my eyes deceive? Is it men with shovels in hand to rescue me from a premature demise? Yes, it’s them, bright lanterns in tow! Ah gents, what a welcome home! There’s music filling the air, women singing, a sweet music I’ve never heard and strange. But wait, what’s that below me? It’s dark and gruesome, a stench that cannot be described with human vernacular! Oh, help me friends, work quick! They’re closing in, growing closer still, fearsome creatures doing their master’s will. Oh fates, save me now! Grasp me in your clutches, ‘tis at your feet I’ll bow! 

Then I heard it clearly and deep, a scraping sound, so sweet, then a flash and a crack, lightning snapping me back into reality. I awakened drenched in perspiration hovering ‘round my brow and neck. Slowly my attention turned hearing the gasping, slow ragged breath with which he spoke, a terrifying grit in his voice. “You’ve been given the chance to choose between love and hate. It’s up to you but it’s getting late.” This ghastly specter hung in the air near the window shut tight. And with his bony finger, he pointed and said, “Make no mistake young man fair and prim all days are numbered, so how shall you choose to spend them?.”