The Texture of Hope

Writer's Write publishes a daily writing prompt. Which is where I picked this one up from. For one of those days, when the mind cannot construct a plot by itself.

Daily Writing Prompt: Writers Write
It is cold to the touch. I run my fingers along the curves, tracing intricate patterns etched onto the surface. The mind conjures up myriad patterns. Up in the sky, I imagine constellations exploding. Bright splotches of red, deep purple rays snaking out. Shimmers of gold. It’s dark against dark, but it looks beautiful. Down here, I feel the metal mold itself to the shape of my palm.

Inside, the urn feels empty. Soulless. The inhabitants have long fled their shelter. Ambition, greed, envy, hatred, injustice, treachery, even ill-health. The sagacious know. I run my finger along the inside and I still feel lingering traces. Eons later, I can still feel their presence. Involuntarily, I shudder. Did Pandora not know what she was unleashing upon the earth? Or did she know but chose to ignore the consequences?

Something brushes upon my fingers and I suck in my breath. After all this time, how could something have been left inside? Weren’t the contents supposed to be a metaphorical lot? But what if they weren’t? What if there was more to it?

Could the urn have been left in the open for too long? Could the workers have been so careless? Or did they know too and chose to leave it out there, knowing that good will stay in there no matter what?

It feels like the soft vane of a feather. My mind takes off again. This time, it feels more peaceful though. It's white, a dull kind of white though, a bit of grey even, light yet precious. It continues to caress my fingers and I feel a warmth building up. There is sunshine in there. Golden yellow, warm to the soul. And I feel the sunshine building up within me. Instinctively, I turn my face up imagining a sun out there. One that I am unable to see but I can feel it on my skin, my face. Lighting me up.

“Ma’am? You are not allowed to touch these.” he says. I decipher an admonishing tone in his voice but then I cannot see if he’s really angry.
“There’s something in here.” I say, my voice barely a whisper, like I am holding on to a century old secret.
“These are empty antiques Ma’am. Please put them back.”
“But .. it’s .. something’s in there.”
“Please Ma’am.” he says, as he guides my arm to keep the urn back on the table.

As I place it back, I feel the weight of the urn in my hand. They say emptiness can feel mighty heavy. But this one; this one seems heavy with the weight of hope.


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