The Singing Bones

More Bones

Saw this image the other day of two skeletons that have been in this embrace for between 6,000 to 9,000 years. :


https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0ejlXqki5G0/WPRigz0vm4I/AAAAAAAABX4/Eh5bW1IvO9cgpmcGa...

I got to thinking about how everything else melts away until only the bones remain. The fragility and strength of life and death.

And I got to thinking about how the idea applies to how I think about stories. When everything else is stripped away, what are the bones? What connects and what is the root of the story? What is holding it up, in effect. Even just that, can be beautiful.

. . . They were only about twenty years old when they died. Twenty years alive and thousand of years gone since. They exist now as an echo of a memory, tangled up in each other.

I found myself studying the spaces between them just as much as I was studying their proximity. Shadows and light. The hollows of their eyes and the spaces behind their teeth . . .

Were they holding hands?

They have taken up a fair amount of space in my head over the last few days. And added a hollow ache in my chest from time to time. I can't tell if it's sadness or longing, that ache. I suppose it could be both.