Drop of Silver

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I recall a pair of doves outside of my window one morning. Their coos were soft, comforting and above all, routine. I awoke, slowly at first, the air was heavy and thick with moisture. A haze was clearly visible outside, I started to feel perspiration form around my neck and forehead. I left the bed as quickly as possible, even light sheets alone were too much in this heat. I gazed around my room, it was at one point clean, but that ship has sailed I suppose.

A pair of unused sneakers sat near my closet, unmarked, clean and forgotten. Likewise I am nearly sure the closet itself contained at least fifty sets of clothing I haven’t worn in years. A loud rapping came from the door, father entered wearing shorts and a light t-shirt. He commenced on informing me to hurry up and get dressed for practice, a moment passed by before fully realizing the validity of his demand. Thoughts ran through my mind, asking myself if practice really was today, as well as other informalities.

I was ready within minutes, as I dressed, I could not stop thinking about the sneakers in my room. By the time my equipment was put together I agreed upon an idea to take them with me to see if any teammates would have them. As I walked out into the foyer area father gave an inquiry of the shoe’s purpose. After giving him an explanation for it, he nodded slowly, then motioned towards the front door, implying he wished to leave immediately.

On our way out to the car, a small coo caught my attention, on the tree behind me was Eros, the white dove, only one of the two doves that sing for me every morning. He was alone at the moment, he seemed destitute and somber, sad really. I hadn’t knew why, then father called to me, I had since fallen behind and needed to hurry to the car, I looked back once inside the car, distraught by the bird.

We began down our normal route to practice and as we did so, father began asking me to sell the shoes to someone, stating that I could reap a handsome profit off of them. But that was father’s way, always speaking in numbers, never in emotions, almost robotic, cold even. As the conversation died down, a flash of light struck my eye near the right side of my face, I turned to see a large Silver drop box. I asked father of it, he told me it was a bin where the rich “Moralists” gave clothing to the needy paupers. I was confused by this at first, then understood father’s train of thought. We continued on past it, I looked back on it several times, it’s bright Silver casing never out of sight, nor out of mind.

Our trip back from practice filled me with solitude as I was unable to procure a suitable candidate for my shoes, especially after father insisted on selling them for money, I wanted none of it. We were not on speaking terms during the trip back, disagreements being what they are, as such the Silver drop box began to interest me once more. I stared at it as we drove past, my face lit up, mainly from the mid afternoon sun, but also from an idea that formed in the back of my mind.

Father took notice and gave me a stern lecture, his attitude uncompromising. He threatened me, not with violence, but with ideology. His ego driven rant continued for the length of the trip home. During which, he spoke of individualism and Laissez-faire, the ideas of Ayn Rand, and the movements that followed. He said that I would be helping a socialist system and soon be the downfall of the countries economy. I left the car before he could continue, he cursed me, and cursed the thoughts that fermented in my mind.

I shut my bedroom door behind me, a small click sound came from the handle, I was alone now. Or at least I though I was, for out the window came another familiar coo. I moved over towards the glass, sliding it open and let a strong summer breeze brush against me. Outside was the dove, it was nearly unchanged since I left earlier except it has moved to the bottom of the tree now. It has been facing a smaller white dove, which was sprawled across the area in front of the sad dove. It’s coos grew ever more softer, they lengthened as if a moan or cry. As I sat at the window watching, my plan became more and more precise, and much more needed than before.

As night fast approached I waited for when I was sure father was asleep, then, as if darkness myself I moved out the front door, careful not to wake father with the sneakers tied by the laces and thrown across my right shoulder. It took some time reaching the drop box on foot, but time seemed to speed up at that point, my purpose seemed ever more needed. I had a goal, I had it set and ready and I would be damned if I didn’t see it through.

I reached the drop box finally as the night became ever more dreary, although the Silver seemed to glow in the night, a beacon of hope for me. When I neared it, a warm emotion reached my chest, it constricted itself, never releasing until later on that night. I opened the bin, the metal squeaked as though rusted and aged, but the silver appearance was new and sparkling. I held out the shoes, keeping the bin open all the while, I stared at the shoes. My eyes focused on one to the other, the shoes, the bin, the shoes, the bin, the shoes, and the old Silver bin.



The shoes fell in, easy as can be, I thought. Easy as can be.


Weeks later when at practice, I heard a coo on my way to the car to go home. It was Eros, he was alone, but his coo was restored, no longer did it have the same somber mix. It was Lively and joyous, and the dove looked as though it was going to click it’s heels together. That is if he had any heels to click, of course. I smiled at the thought, when a young boy ran into me.

We exchanged glances for a moment, he looked to me, then to my shoes, commenting on how they looked good. He ran off, squeaks came from his own shoes, as if new, and somehow familiar. I saw his shoes and it suddenly struck me. I started after the boy, catching up to him I tried to catch my breath, he just looked at me confused. I looked up, the boy was young, strong, and confident, he had an assertion about him that seemed almost godlike. I looked down to the shoes again, noticing a small glimmer coming from them.

It seems in the heat of the late summer, a flake of Silver had peeled off onto the right shoe, it seemed to melt somehow into the shoe, becoming a part of it.



“I like your shoes. I like that drop of Silver.”





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IamtheshyStargirl said...
Mar. 28, 2011 at 1:43 pm

Your writing is always so meaningful.

I guess it's safe to sya that I'm pretty much a fan of yours by now :)

 
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