she worked underground

I spent the afternoon reading through old notebooks filled with pieces I’ve written. Some were finished stories, others concepts or impressions from what was going on in my life. I found many “mindful” thoughts, chronicles of trips, lists of words and disconnected sentences. It was quite fascinating; like a time capsule of events all noted on paper.

I plan to start sharing some of these partial works. My intention is that something in them will resonate with someone.

She worked underground. It was better than working above. Daylight exposed things and cast shadows of doubt. Scars and pain, hidden in the earth were revealed.

Daily donning the garb of a miner, she gripped her pick axe to toil in darkness; striking each rock with a solid blow. Emerging at dusk, she was loose to roam the quiet streets.

Covered in grit, she was not a sight to turn heads. Her one atoning feature was the unconventional necklace hung from her ivory neck. People rarely got a glimpse of it as it remained tucked softly under the ragged flannel.

The filigree laced with stones was her reminder. In a former time, she had been more than a person grubbing out an existence in the belly of the earth.

Arriving at her nondescript flat, she shed the outward attire that now defined her; dirt-caked nails and hair matted to her head in the shape of a helmet.

But there, dangling on her chest was the promise. She clutched it, her life depended on what it symbolized – hope. She stood for a time; long shadows fell across the room in the form of a cross. A faint smile lit her face.

Nevertheless, tomorrow she would return to the underground.

Working above ground, today -

Missy

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