My grandmothers crucifix is hung from a fixture over the place I sleep at night, but I do not sleep at night. Lying quietly in the lingering light, I push the rather ornately beaded chain and observe as its thrusts transform through diminished movements. In the evenings following time spent in the garden, I would scrape away the filth from beneath my fingernails using its sharp corners. Purging what I would imagine to be the equivalent of the entire garden. Never a spec of dirt could be found upon the corner of the silvery cross. The debris, no doubt made its way immediately into the abyss between my bed and the wall. Never caring to investigate the matter further leaving discoveries instead to distant mystery as to how the earth rose through the floorboards.
Night after night I would swing that cross and listen to life behind the walls. I only trusted the images. I only wanted to believe in the suffering, or was the pain of struggle the only life I had known. Staring through the darkness I would walk the hillside outside the city walls. By way of the moonlight I would feel the mud of tears and blood and sweat and piss beneath bare feet, squeezing between toes. Howling winds to the mutters of silent deals, through tearing cloth and unsettled bones. Weaving myself freely among the monuments to long shadows, I would search for the him, the one. Struggling in that dim light to find the face. The same image I had seen in portraits adorning the seminary walls in my childhood. While enduring extreme boredom, I would stare into those piercing blue eyes for so long I began to see my own face trapped within the internal struggle. Peering up onto the damned, none would seem familiar. In none I would find the starry blues, like mine. One after the other just the ordinary, everyday crucified sinners, awaiting their slow death.
In the darkness I continue to push the crucifix, the only proof of motion is the erie scraping against the wall. Screams of jet planes and the cold of night pours in through the open window. Those planes just as my silent wails too, are filled with stories. Just as in the stories of objects spoken. Swinging and spoken, swinging and spoken, eternal.