Soot on palms -- it adds an inch thick layer to my blistered hands. Two hands that were once tan are now worn, torn, and black from this evening's task.
The silver shines when it reflects the streetlight above. With the strength to keep a werewolf at bay and value enough to be adorned by socialites, tonight the metal serves only one purpose: dig.
Bury, rather. A hole to fill with all of our unresolved fights, unexplained anger, inconsistent episodes. That one time you yelled and I shook with such anger and sadness that I dropped the tea kettle. The other when we drove on Route 9, our ear shattering silence booming with each bump in the road. When you ripped my journal and I burned your favorite tie... All buried, soon to be packed by this precious metal and covered with the very soot that's caked onto the creases in my palm.
The world around me is still. The only two sounds are my breath and the clank of the shovel at work. As the metal hits earth, I wonder how long until I can finally wash off the dirt from my tired hands.