Pins and Needles

It comes to life in a rundown shack on a Louisiana dock. It owes the spark feeding its existence to the old woman hunched in shadow across the plain wooden box, her dark skin folded over in wrinkles, so many her chocolate eyes can barely see. Her fingers feel warm, kind. She settles It in the fragrant cedar, cushioned by fresh straw, long, slim pins placed lovingly inside. The lid closes.

It doesn't fear the darkness. It just came from the place of nothing. The box rocks as It is lifted. The squeal of an old, salt-eaten hinge echoes in the night. Fresh air seeps through the fine cracks in Its home. The sea, dead fish. Worse things.

It rests, unconcerned for the passing of time or distance. And yet, when the old woman's footsteps slow, It feels the pulse of life speed up. Soon It will be in the hands for which It was made.

A change of possession in whispered French, a new feeling, still loving, but tinted with fear.

More travel, swifter this time. Urgent.

And then, light. There is light. And soft voices, too soft for It to hear. Shocking, a single shout.

"No!"

The world struggles around It, a back and forth seesaw of demand and denial. It flops inside its box as the world spins, turned upside down. One of the shining, pearl- topped pins jabs Its leg. The pain is a shock. But It is unable to do anything about the agony. Gravity lets go and It floats for what seems an eternity before crashing into something hard.

The box remains intact, at least. Its home, Its safe haven.

Still, It has no fear, only confusion and need. Where is the girl in whose image It was created?

Silence. Darkness. Waiting.

All the while, the pin. And the pain. On and on forever.

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