Traces

Traces Like the color of flowers in darkness, so are the traces of the dead, filtering among their absence like the roiling veins of the human body, the marred opals of our being. The reminder--crumbs on church floors-- flour coating the grainy faces of Christ like the dust on moth wings, dispersed among us like your father's ashes among the Aegean. But even your father knew the unspeakable truths that are voiced among the dead--the apple juice you once spilled on his old coat, the one blank line you left alone in Sunday's crossword puzzle, and what was it, just what was it he always said about your hair? The darkest color of them all. Try telling that to your mother, a painter nonetheless, crafting her unspeakable story onto the old canvas in her study, the human condition forced upon its surface, the linen seemingly hating her for it, the Golgotha of her hands crafting the Jerusalem of her life.