This is one of the February Writing Challenge entries chosen to be a featured story.
I am thinking of a number.
A number that’s wooden,
and has seen the brightest to the ugliest days.
A number that has weathered every storm.
One number that has watched
generations come and go and awaited their posterity.
It has seen the chalk marks on the sidewalk or the tire marks of long gone cars.
This number once had life and spirit.
It would smell of dew and wet wood.
But this number like most people grows older and weaker, and like all mortal men, must also face the grave,
and be buried under sacred dirt.
The number I’m thinking of is seven.
This number used to hang between two and zero.
On the wall of a house.
But even though the number is gone it’s mark still remains.