By Elizabeth Cunningham
Every morning, after taking one last whiff of the crisp cool breeze, I ride the train down into the mine. It winds through cramped dark tunnels, lit only by the dim light of our headlamps. We arrive in a small clearing that smells of sweaty men covered in grime and coal dust. I operate the drilling machine, drilling holes where explosives can be deposited. I long for the whisper of the breeze in my ears and the way it tickles my neck. I miss the way it lightly tousles my hair and ruffles my clothing. I hope for the night to come.
We arrive above the ground at midnight. The stars greet us, their glittering forms like beacons of light on a hopeless journey. Thinking of the breeze we feel and the scenic beauty we see at night helps every man to get through each day. The luminous moon illuminates the path to the parking lot. I walk to my car and head home.
We all have assumptions. I assume that every day I will feel the breeze in the morning and again at night. We all have assumptions, but not all of them are right.
The tunnel is blocked. The rocks around it have caved in. We have no other way out. I will no longer feel the breeze. I will no longer feel the chill it sends down my spine on dark lifeless nights when the moon is obscured by buildings. I took it for granted. I thought I would always get to feel its caressing touch. I thought I would always make it back up from the coal mine. Now I’m trapped. Confined. Imprisoned. In a jail cell that’s dark and stiff. Without wind.
Every morning, after taking one last whiff of the crisp cool breeze, I ride the train down into the mine. It winds through cramped dark tunnels, lit only by the dim light of our headlamps. We arrive in a small clearing that smells of sweaty men covered in grime and coal dust. I operate the drilling machine, drilling holes where explosives can be deposited. I long for the whisper of the breeze in my ears and the way it tickles my neck. I miss the way it lightly tousles my hair and ruffles my clothing. I hope for the night to come.
We arrive above the ground at midnight. The stars greet us, their glittering forms like beacons of light on a hopeless journey. Thinking of the breeze we feel and the scenic beauty we see at night helps every man to get through each day. The luminous moon illuminates the path to the parking lot. I walk to my car and head home.
We all have assumptions. I assume that every day I will feel the breeze in the morning and again at night. We all have assumptions, but not all of them are right.
The tunnel is blocked. The rocks around it have caved in. We have no other way out. I will no longer feel the breeze. I will no longer feel the chill it sends down my spine on dark lifeless nights when the moon is obscured by buildings. I took it for granted. I thought I would always get to feel its caressing touch. I thought I would always make it back up from the coal mine. Now I’m trapped. Confined. Imprisoned. In a jail cell that’s dark and stiff. Without wind.
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