The Passport

THE WOODEN ARM

For a long time a humped black stump stood behind the church.

People said that a man was standing behind the church. He looked like the priest without his hat.

Each morning dew fell. The boxwood hedge was sprinkled with white. The stump was black.

The sacristan took the faded roses from the altars and carried them outside behind the church. He passed the stump. The stump was his wife’s wooden arm.

Charred leaves whirled around. There was no wind. The leaves were weightless. They rose to his knees. They fell before his steps. The leaves crumbled. They were soot.

The sacristan took the faded roses from the altars and carried them outside the church. He passed the stump. The stump was his wife’s wooden arm.

A handful of ashes lay on the ground.

The sacristan put the ashes in a box. He went to the edge of the village. He scraped a hole in the earth with his hands. There was a crooked branch in front of his face. It was a wooden arm. It reached out to him.

The sacristan buried the box in the hole. He walked along a dusty path into the fields. He could hear the trees from far away. The maize had withered. Leaves broke wherever he went. He felt all the loneliness of the years. His life was transparent. Empty.

Crows flew over the maize. They settled on the maize stalks. They were made of coal. They were heavy. The maize stalks swayed. The crows flapped.

When the sacristan was back in the village, he felt his heart hanging naked and stiff between his ribs. The box with the ashes lay beside the hedge.