Carved Oak

It was a painful sound. The sound of someone crying. We were
separated only by a thin wooden partition - and a lifetime of never
having known one another.

The wood between us was carved out - with revealing gaps - painting an
incomplete picture of his agony. I watched pieces of his pain - a hand
grasping a heart here, a finger wiping a tear there - an incomplete
portrait to accompany the agonizing sound.

The wood between us was carved out - reminding me of a confessional -
and we would have been seated next to each other - had it not been for
its presence - I would have been sitting next to his pain. Instead I
felt I was sitting in the presence of a priest - waiting for my
penance.

The wood between us was carved out - and I watched his hands -
reflecting his pain. His fingers - clutching - letting go - clutching -
letting go - repeated over and over. Like he was trying to hold on to
something that wasn't there.

The wood between us was carved out - and I leaned my forehead against
it. Closed my eyes - shutting out the crying hands. But still I could
hear him. And I suppose he saw my skin pressed against the wood - a
blind witness to his pain. He reached through and I felt his finger
against my forehead - wet - he traced north to south. And then west to
east. And anointed me with his pain.

I sat with my eyes closed - and for a moment shared his grief without
knowing why.

The wood between us was carved out - and would have revealed to me his
back walking away had I opened my eyes. But I didn't. Instead I traced
the cross of grief he had left me with - the markings from the wood
indented momentarily in my skin - from a barrier that could have so
easily been crossed.

The wood between us was carved out - a map on our bodies - crossing in
one moment of time where my map became a mirror image of his - before
veering away - carving out into another direction.

There is no penance here.

Only grief.