The Hole

           Before there was a well, there was a hole. Children often snuck out to visit. They boost their friends up to describe what they see, leaning over the edge. A tight grip saves no one when the hole decides. In they go. No one remembers those who fall, not by name anyways, only by the sound they make. ‘The Screamers’, ‘The Squealers’, ‘The Silent’. Those who have seen will never speak of it only warn their children to stay away.

​

           They make a new name when one comes back. Gone for months he was. ‘The One who Returned’. His mother is overjoyed, makes him a plate of cross buns, snuggles him tight in a thick blanket, coos him all night. His father is weary. He lost a brother to the hole, not so quick is he to believe his son has returned.

​

           He leaves salt everywhere he goes. Trails of it on chairs, on the paths, on the wagon, in the chicken coop, in his bed. It sheds off of him. His clothes are full of it. His mother collects all she can, keeps it in a big jar. He grows smaller; a little at a time. One day his mother grabs him tight, there is barely enough to hold him in one arm. She cries, yelling for her husband but when he arrives all he finds is a wet puddle. Her arms caked white, her tears never ending.

​

           He washes her off, cleans the floor, takes the jar, and a shovel. He takes it back to the hole, the one who stole his brother, dropping the whole thing in. It makes no sound. He begins to shovel the dirt, scoop by scoop he works. He brings a wheelbarrow to dig more filling it with dirt he dumps into the well. He scoops and scoops and scoops and scoops. When he is done, the well is filled. He is trapped at the bottom of his own hole; his neighbors help him out. Silently they arrive, silently they leave.

​

           The children no longer know of the hole, only the stories of those lost in the forest. Sometimes, they hear the sound of shoveling. The sounds of their parents filling the hole to the top again night after night.