I Love Post

    She would hug close the weathered post day and night, its pronounced grain rubbed smooth by the hundreds of thousands of passes of her hand.
    When she had first begun her love affair with Post she would sit in the grass much as she does now, her legs wrapped about its base Indian-style, her angelic face pressed against it adoringly, her tiny prepubescent hands moving over Post until the Sun had set and she was called into the house.  After supper she would crawl into bed and watch Post from the window by candlelight.  There she would lay on her side and pluck the tiny splinters of Post from her hands and pile them in a dish on the window sill until succumbing to slumber’s subtle call.
    Post didn’t seem to mind having these tiny particles of its being transported in this fashion.  Post was stalwart and resilient, was never late and as a result always there when needed.  Post would just stand there in the yard under the rustling leaves of the Elm and withering light of the moon. 

    Years would pass and both Post and girl aged together.  Boys came and went, but only they remained.  Even after the woodpeckers had dislodged the knot on the corner she had imagined as Post’s eye, its companion winking away and concealed elsewhere.  Some may say Post lacked the desire to leave, others may say Post had nowhere else to go.

    Then one boy came along and didn’t go as suddenly as the others.  He would pick her up during the day and drive her away down the dirt road.  Post forlornly watching as they disappeared into the haze.  After arriving late at night she would fix her stare on the moonlit elm, or the boy, or the ember at the tip of his cigarette, anything to avoid the solemn gaze of Post.
    Sometimes they would park in the driveway, necking with the headlights casting a long shadow behind Post.  The knothole seemed to widen as the groping become more desperate, more fervid, until finally condensation on the windows obscured them from view and she could breath easier, and harder.

    Months later she was lying next to Post picking at a loose piece of wood when she noticed an area that was a lighter shade to Post’s usual charcoal gray tone.  Furrowing her brow she delicately poked at the patch.  The wood was brittle, flecks of dust sprinkled into the grass.  She looked up at Post’s socket and a single tear broke free, escaping down the expanse of her face.  She gently pushed at Post, he gave somewhat, creaking reproachfully.  She leapt to her feet and looked about her, hoping to spy some wood filler, or epoxy, or even some wood treatment, but all she saw was the boy’s car rolling up, a cloud of dust ushering it down the drive.  She looked back to Post, who looked haggard and desperate in his slanted state.  The scrape of worn brake pads sounded and soon thereafter the opening and closing of a car door.
    Post was in poor shape.
    The boy hollered.
    Post shook feebly for her to stay.
    She turned to the boy and forced a smile after he kissed her lips.
    He wanted to know what on Earth was the matter.
    She said, nothing, everything was fine.  She missed him.
    He was pleased to hear this from her and had to admit he too, had missed her.
    A conflicted smile passed over her features as the boy circled her and Post.  He was paying rather close attention to Post.  He actually reached out and  placed a hand atop Post.  Post moaned in response and the woman gingerly placed a hand over the boy’s to assure he didn’t cause any further damage.
    The boy raised a brow in response to the trepidation in her eyes.  He smirked and teasingly shook Post, an urgent roar of disapproval and a sharp crack burst into the noon sky.  Blackbirds chirped and fluttered out of the elm as Post, shattered and severed at the base, fell to the grass.  Sawdust wafted into the air and the woman and boy tasted bitter cedar.
    The boy’s smirk remained, though his eyes were apologetic. 
    The woman screamed and fell to her knees desperately trying to affix Post’s top to Post’s base.  But Post could not be put back together again.  Post was surprisingly light in her arm, the dry-rot having run so deeply.  She cradled Post in her lap, sobbing helplessly.
    The boy laughed, feeling he had no other recourse.  The laughter escaped him in great peals, contrasting the woman’s weeping beautifully.  He was shaking with his hands thrown over his mouth, watching the woman bemusedly, her knuckles were white around Post, an index finger hooking through the socket.
    Purposefully she stood, the sobs subsiding, and glared at the boy.
    His bales of laughter subsided and he raised a brow toward her.
    She said nothing, simply looked down at Post then back at the boy, as she swung Post into his head.
    Post held up well.  The boy did not, having collapsed into a patch of clover.
    The woman took this opportunity to check for emotion within herself but only found a void.  A gaping, seeping ,bleeding void that could never be filled again.   So she bashed Post against the boy’s head.  Still nothing.  She struck him again, and again, until the clover had turned crimson.
    She stood over the boy for a while, panting with Post clenched in her grasp.  Slowly she became aware of the rustling elm and the sporadic chirping of blackbirds.  Post was soaked but other than that, none the worse for wear.
    She smiled and imagined Post smiling back, then retreated indoors and up the stairs to her bedroom where they laid together, her angelic face pressed against Post adoringly.