deepundergroundpoetry.com
Amelia's Box
He spied her in the crowded bar,
A local haunt for regulars,
The pregame, postgame, game time refuge.
In a rolling sea of moving bodies,
Voices crashed and chased each other in crescendo,
She remained still, quiet, ethereal.
She does not belong here.
That was his first lucid thought through an alcohol induced haze.
What is she doing here?
For her part, she sat peacefully, hands atop the bar,
Her auburn locks fell full and loose,
A cascade of fire tumbling over pale shoulders.
He approached, straightening pants, pulling at his shirt,
Never taking his eyes from the molten curls,
Distantly aware she could be a mirage or drunken hallucination.
When he neared the bar, he caught her scent,
Even above the cigarettes, whiskey and body odor,
Coconut, a soft, sweet, hint of fragrance floated on the air around her.
She does not belong here.
It sounded again in the confines of his addled mind.
He pushed his way between a loud patron and this Gaelic beauty.
She turned to him with luminous eyes,
Their color brilliant, set in the outline of dark lashes,
Green as emeralds, green as the Isle itself, and yet, somehow faded.
Those green eyes held the answers of a lifetime's search,
He was struck by the sorrowful wisdom they contained,
When they closed and retreated, he could not help but brush his fingers on her arm.
He intended to say any number of things,
He never intended to clumsily whisper,
“What are you doing here?”
Her smile was slow but genuine,
Her eyes caught a spark of fire and brightened,
Her pale, near translucent fingertips traced his own resting on her skin.
She was as pale as predawn,
Her fiery curls and porcelain skin belonged on a doll,
A china doll, kept high in a glass case, safe and removed.
“Scotch,” her lips whispered back,
Her smile warmed and drew him into the space between them,
“Neat. Always neat.”
Her fingers drew away from his and returned to the bar top,
They rested flat on either side of a beautifully adorned box,
A box fit for a tiara, or, he considered despondently, a very large diamond ring.
She smiled at his sudden discomfort, reading his thoughts,
Her knowing glance, almost playful he thought,
Told him no, there was no crown nor ring, silly man.
He swallowed, moving closer to her silence,
The cacophony of a grand slam was lost in the distance,
“What’s in the box?” he whispered, his rough, wooly arm pressed against hers.
Her smile remained in place but turned sad, suddenly burdened,
There was a faint shimmer of far away stars along her lower eyelids,
A collection of memories held within crystalline tears.
She looked at the box between her empty hands,
“I took it,” she said softly, “I thought it was meant for me.”
He watched a single tear tremble on a single eyelash.
He longed to touch it, to collect it,
It would be as dear a possession as he had ever owned,
The purity of such a tear from such an Irish lass.
The tear trembled but did not fall,
She sighed deeply, yet somehow neither in nor out,
Her body expanded and deflated with introspection.
“I saw it once in his closet,” she murmured, breathy and reminiscent,
Her wistful, far away smile, painfully twisted a knife in his heart,
“I waited,” her eyes slowly turned to him, “But he never gave it to me.”
“So you took it.” He stated, condoning the theft as her given right.
“So,” she sighed, turning her gaze to the ribbons and silk wrapping, “I took it.”
Her head tilted imperceptibly and at last, the single tremulous tear fell.
His hand encircled her forearm tenderly,
She smiled through the remaining shimmer of unspent pain,
“I thought it was to be my gift.”
“What’s inside, er…?” he bumbled, “I don’t know your name.”
He was suddenly too aware of her closeness and her scent.
“Hope,” she softly exhaled, “and my name is Amelia.”
Her name drew him to join her silence, considering her riddle.
“Hope? You stole a box of hope?” he asked, pressing closer to catch her words.
“Yes,” soft breath, barely audible repeated, “my hope.”
“But, Amelia, why…” his words were lost along with the electricity of the bar.
The roar of outraged sports fans deafened him,
Emergency lighting flickered to life.
Bodies shoved and pushed,
Loud voices boomed and argued, demanding,
Beer bottles crashed and shattered into waiting trash bins.
The whirlwind of the tumultuous moment drew his gaze away,
He stepped to move closer, to shield Amelia from the fray,
But her once occupied bar stool stood empty.
He turned fully to the vacancy next to him, unsure and stupefied.
An empty bar stool, a glass of scotch and a beautifully decorated box.
His mind whispered again what he already knew, she didn’t belong here.
He reverently moved into the now empty space, his senses searching,
The faintest hint of coconut lingered in her departure.
He took up the untouched scotch, and his eyes paused on the box.
Amelia’s box of hope.
He reached out hesitantly and was mildly shocked to find it solid beneath his touch.
With quiet exhalation, he drew it toward him, slowly, fearful it would disappear.
Amelia’s box of hope.
He reverently worked loose the ribbon adorned lid.
Empty, but for a single piece of red tissue paper.
Amelia’s hope.
The realization struck him more deeply than he thought he had capacity,
A single tear trembled on a single eyelash, distorting Amelia’s box.
He replaced the lid slowly, enveloped by her lingering sadness,
Amelia’s box.
Empty.
A local haunt for regulars,
The pregame, postgame, game time refuge.
In a rolling sea of moving bodies,
Voices crashed and chased each other in crescendo,
She remained still, quiet, ethereal.
She does not belong here.
That was his first lucid thought through an alcohol induced haze.
What is she doing here?
For her part, she sat peacefully, hands atop the bar,
Her auburn locks fell full and loose,
A cascade of fire tumbling over pale shoulders.
He approached, straightening pants, pulling at his shirt,
Never taking his eyes from the molten curls,
Distantly aware she could be a mirage or drunken hallucination.
When he neared the bar, he caught her scent,
Even above the cigarettes, whiskey and body odor,
Coconut, a soft, sweet, hint of fragrance floated on the air around her.
She does not belong here.
It sounded again in the confines of his addled mind.
He pushed his way between a loud patron and this Gaelic beauty.
She turned to him with luminous eyes,
Their color brilliant, set in the outline of dark lashes,
Green as emeralds, green as the Isle itself, and yet, somehow faded.
Those green eyes held the answers of a lifetime's search,
He was struck by the sorrowful wisdom they contained,
When they closed and retreated, he could not help but brush his fingers on her arm.
He intended to say any number of things,
He never intended to clumsily whisper,
“What are you doing here?”
Her smile was slow but genuine,
Her eyes caught a spark of fire and brightened,
Her pale, near translucent fingertips traced his own resting on her skin.
She was as pale as predawn,
Her fiery curls and porcelain skin belonged on a doll,
A china doll, kept high in a glass case, safe and removed.
“Scotch,” her lips whispered back,
Her smile warmed and drew him into the space between them,
“Neat. Always neat.”
Her fingers drew away from his and returned to the bar top,
They rested flat on either side of a beautifully adorned box,
A box fit for a tiara, or, he considered despondently, a very large diamond ring.
She smiled at his sudden discomfort, reading his thoughts,
Her knowing glance, almost playful he thought,
Told him no, there was no crown nor ring, silly man.
He swallowed, moving closer to her silence,
The cacophony of a grand slam was lost in the distance,
“What’s in the box?” he whispered, his rough, wooly arm pressed against hers.
Her smile remained in place but turned sad, suddenly burdened,
There was a faint shimmer of far away stars along her lower eyelids,
A collection of memories held within crystalline tears.
She looked at the box between her empty hands,
“I took it,” she said softly, “I thought it was meant for me.”
He watched a single tear tremble on a single eyelash.
He longed to touch it, to collect it,
It would be as dear a possession as he had ever owned,
The purity of such a tear from such an Irish lass.
The tear trembled but did not fall,
She sighed deeply, yet somehow neither in nor out,
Her body expanded and deflated with introspection.
“I saw it once in his closet,” she murmured, breathy and reminiscent,
Her wistful, far away smile, painfully twisted a knife in his heart,
“I waited,” her eyes slowly turned to him, “But he never gave it to me.”
“So you took it.” He stated, condoning the theft as her given right.
“So,” she sighed, turning her gaze to the ribbons and silk wrapping, “I took it.”
Her head tilted imperceptibly and at last, the single tremulous tear fell.
His hand encircled her forearm tenderly,
She smiled through the remaining shimmer of unspent pain,
“I thought it was to be my gift.”
“What’s inside, er…?” he bumbled, “I don’t know your name.”
He was suddenly too aware of her closeness and her scent.
“Hope,” she softly exhaled, “and my name is Amelia.”
Her name drew him to join her silence, considering her riddle.
“Hope? You stole a box of hope?” he asked, pressing closer to catch her words.
“Yes,” soft breath, barely audible repeated, “my hope.”
“But, Amelia, why…” his words were lost along with the electricity of the bar.
The roar of outraged sports fans deafened him,
Emergency lighting flickered to life.
Bodies shoved and pushed,
Loud voices boomed and argued, demanding,
Beer bottles crashed and shattered into waiting trash bins.
The whirlwind of the tumultuous moment drew his gaze away,
He stepped to move closer, to shield Amelia from the fray,
But her once occupied bar stool stood empty.
He turned fully to the vacancy next to him, unsure and stupefied.
An empty bar stool, a glass of scotch and a beautifully decorated box.
His mind whispered again what he already knew, she didn’t belong here.
He reverently moved into the now empty space, his senses searching,
The faintest hint of coconut lingered in her departure.
He took up the untouched scotch, and his eyes paused on the box.
Amelia’s box of hope.
He reached out hesitantly and was mildly shocked to find it solid beneath his touch.
With quiet exhalation, he drew it toward him, slowly, fearful it would disappear.
Amelia’s box of hope.
He reverently worked loose the ribbon adorned lid.
Empty, but for a single piece of red tissue paper.
Amelia’s hope.
The realization struck him more deeply than he thought he had capacity,
A single tear trembled on a single eyelash, distorting Amelia’s box.
He replaced the lid slowly, enveloped by her lingering sadness,
Amelia’s box.
Empty.
Published 4th Jul 2020
Author's Note
The barkeep would tell him later that Amelia shows up about once a year, sits in the same place, and orders only one drink, scotch, neat. "Not for her though," he added, "for whoever never shows up."
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
4th Jul 2020 8:33pm
4th Jul 2020 8:41pm
Aww, thanks. I'll stick to words, though. I tend to get more paint on me than the medium!!!
4th Jul 2020 8:42pm
4th Jul 2020 8:43pm
5th Jul 2020 6:05am
I enjoyed your poignant and touching story. It was mysterious and sad, and I made special note of the tear appearing on the single eyelash of each our your characters.
I liked how you used the Authors Note as a sort of an epilogue, which lent even more intrigue to the story...who is this Amelia?
I liked how you used the Authors Note as a sort of an epilogue, which lent even more intrigue to the story...who is this Amelia?
5th Jul 2020 3:22pm
Hmmmm...that is the question. Like all good ghost stories, there are secrets Amelia took with her along with her box.
I absolutely adore your attention to detail! Yes! The single tear! No one has ever commented on that. Thank you so much for your review, it makes it worth posting!
I absolutely adore your attention to detail! Yes! The single tear! No one has ever commented on that. Thank you so much for your review, it makes it worth posting!
