Bone by Dean Cameron Reynolds
Very quiet. Unobtrusive. You would never know that they were there   until the light fell on them.   A few cold, grey, dust-blanketed souvenirs of a faraway time. A gnarled, broken, inarticulate pile of Memories highlighted by a grinning skull, lying on its side, staring into the dirt as if in shame, hiding its face. The sad apologetic grin trying to excuse itself from bothering you.   Your immediate reaction is one of shock, horror and a cold vice-like fear. These poor old bones would never hurt you, neither would its previous owner (may he rest in peace). Society has taught us that these chiseled limbs of calcium are the epitome of evil, a shameful secret that must be stuck in the ground and forgotten about, when in reality they are their owner's final gift to us. Not the gift of paperweights, but the gift of memories, emotion and of a special spirit now gone. Cast your eyes down and let them rest on that thigh bone. Listen. Can you hear it? A mother is clapping as a toddler takes his first steps. Look at the hand, it has a ring on it. Years ago he nervously knelt and asked for the love of another. Look at his collarbone, shattered by a bullet in a war long gone. Grandchildren sat on his knee and listened in awe as he told tall tales of a glorious battle. You close your eyes and listen as a flood of his memories are played before you like the supreme theatrical drama. Childhood, first love, first born, marriages, deaths, births, sadness, happiness, life   Silence. You open your eyes and look down at the grinning skull. It has changed from a demonic grin to a tired smile that seems to say, "Thank you for understanding, and for taking the time to listen."