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Togetherness (A Bookmark Contest Entry) |
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by Jack Rusher
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1:13 |
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They walk hand in hand along a road that stretches into the distance before and behind them. Short hills roll away to either side, carpeted with dry grass and furnished with stunted trees. The horizon shimmers at all edges of a big empty blue sky. There are no animals on the ground, nor any in the trees.
At the beginning of their journey, each gave the other a handmade wicker basket. Now the baskets are old and tattered, but still in constant use, fastened like backpacks. Whenever they meet a stone in their path, one of them lifts it from the road, wipes the dust from it, then drops it into the other’s basket. On a good day there are only a few small ones, but sometimes there are many heavy boulders.
The hard, unforgiving, mineral weight of the baskets makes them difficult to lift and harder to carry, but the travelers forge on, walking unevenly and occasionally staggering.
Gaps and gashes have developed in the battered baskets, through which the stones slowly escape. New stones are felt keenly, like fresh bruises; old stones slip away quietly, without notice. Only these holes prevent the baskets from overflowing, the straps from breaking, the travelers from collapsing. Nevertheless, they walk on, collecting more stones as they go, each trusting the other not to make the load too heavy too quickly.
Jack Rusher writes for the web at rhetoricaldevice.com.
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