Just My Treasure and I

I close my eyes and see a shovel in my hand, a wall of dirt surrounding me, and the gentle reflection of light from the moon peeking at me from above. The grass, that lays lazy over the edge of the freshly dug hole I'm in, sits right at my eye level, soon to be way over my head. My breath drops dead as it leaves my mouth for the soft dirt absorbs every sound I make. Just then I hear the tune that put the shovel in my hands in the first place. A sound that, a year ago I would not think twice of listening to even once. It means I’m getting close. You see I have come to believe that somewhere under my exact spot there is treasure beyond a pirate’s wildest dream. And as I sink further and further away from the natural light of the surface I grow more addicted to this tune. My friends throw rope, hoping that I would grab hold when they pull it back but all I can attach is a note or two of what I see and feel.

Their silhouettes look down on me as their words drop like hail, “There is no treasure down there and you know it!” And who can blame them? As good friends they must tell me when I’m beyond ridiculous. I mean who buries treasure anymore? And this tune I speak of, no one hears it.

And with dust in my lungs I call back, “What if there is?”

The answer to my question came in the form of the ropes, once again, retracting to the surface. I follow the rope’s end as it trails, up and up. “This is the furthest I’ve ever gone,” I say softly at them. “I thought you’d be proud.”

Yeah, I dug holes before, but they’ve only been the side effect of the hills I’ve built. Then after marveling at the view from the top of those highlands, I’d dig another hole in different scenery. But I don’t want just another mound that I can hop off of and move on from anymore. I yearn to sit atop the highest mountain, just my treasure and I.