Bringing usual objects to life … trying again, correctly this time with prompt #4.
My closet is bursting. It is as full as a graveyard even though I go through it seasonally. There is a rainbow of colour in my closet spread out between thin boned arms that always seem to crack and break.
The creakybones rattle when I go in my closet to choose something to wear. I can feel the dust of the oldest bones between my pale ghostly skin itching up the material of my clothes. I wonder why skeletons would reside as such interlopers in my closet. Haven’t they got better places to rot and turn to dust then between my favourite blouse and skirt?
These ancient bones they wouldn’t care if they were still dripping wet on the secrets I hide in my closet. They’ve thrown their ghastly juices upon scrapbook albums from my good old university days, albums my nieces and nephews will see when their old enough. Auntie drinking to much Vodka Slime. The skeletons would probably love Vodka Slime. It’s a drink right up a skeletons alley. Enough vodka to rot your guts out with just a twist of lime and a small amount of 7up. Those are probably what these dry bones thirst for, slime.
It’s the shoes I get upset about. Skeletal limbs scratching back and forth on my first pair of deep patent red stiletto pumps. Some association with the pints of blood that use to flow through veins and and work through muscle. But they love to scrape a sequin off my sequinned silver stiletto pumps or to tear the silky material on those flowered purple pumps I’ve never worn yet. They like the cacophony of sounds bones make against shoes possibly because of the association of soles (souls) and feet. They haven’t got either you see so they go after what they miss the most.
They’ve no place to walk these days and nothing to see through gaping eye holes. They have nothing to grin at through toothy smiles. The bones just sway there, holding up my boxes, my clothing, and violating my shoes. They hang between my clothes and I inhale dust in the air like smoke.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. At least my skeletons were never burnt to charcoal, into small fragments of bone. They have no marrow my bones, I doubt they ever did. It’s too long ago to tell that they had a core full of life. But I take care as I said to make sure they are never covered in rags, or never serve as shelves to tattered leggings.
I leave my closet open at night just so I can see what the skeletons are doing in there swaying and cracking. Sometimes I hear the whisper of song, these dry bones are gonna rise up, these brittle bones…But I think skeletons make you imagine things. They make you hallucinate what was never even real, at least in an explainable sense. But they are my skeletons, my past. And the past is the best indicator of where you’re going.
Truth: we are all going where these skeletons have gone, they are just bones ready to be pushed back into the crypt at the bottom of my closet. In reality, there are more skeletons waiting to get their quivering tarsals ( or is it metatarsals) on my clothing, fresh, juicy ones.
But the skeletons I hate the most are only dust and coat the baseboards outside my closet door. They build up powdery white and dirty the carpet like chalk. I think that if even skeletons can be dust they still exist and can never be fully forgotten. I love your bones, a character in a book I’m reading attests. I think we are talking about two different things …