Stone Cold Statue

By: Charlotte Shum

With the strike of a chisel, another shard fell off, revealing the stone gaze of a stone eye.

For a split second, I smile, feeling the crinkles forming around my eyes. I brush my fingers over the carved stone, wiping away the non-existent tears just as he did before to me.

As I continue to cut off stone, the tiny specks of dust gather around his lower eyelid, an area I had not refined yet. That was for good reason, of course, I didn’t want to mess up his memorial sculpture. It was just that his lower face was hard to recreate with old, degrading photos.

Photos of him and my childhood self. The only photos left of him.

The memories flood my mind like water through a broken dam. Hitting me like a bus. Crushing my heart in an instant.

I wish he could be right here with me right now, modelling for me just like old times.

But of course, that would never be possible now. Not in this day and age. Not ever.

I, once again, slash off chunks of stone. My movements are not as precise as before; the chisel rattles against the stone, like an anxious child rapping on a door. Perhaps it’s time for a break.

My hands still shake as I lift them away from the stone. Moving away, I release the grip on my chisel in my right hand and grab the photos with my left.

I try to compare them. The vast difference is too much to take; everything is different, every aspect but his eyes.

The eyes, the animated eyes, they are nothing like his but seem too much like them too.

It’s all wrong. The face, forlorn and worn, his eyes, lively and joyful. The statue is wrong. The urge to destroy the knockoff overtakes me, and I grip the tools with all my might.

I strike the chisel harder than before. The collection of dust trickles downwards, completely covering my shoes and the like.

I strike the chisel again. Over and over and over again.

Cracks form all over the stone.

My chisel clatters to the ground as I reach for the hammer.

The crumbled remnants stand out against the dusty blue flooring. Now, I feel his stone eyes gazing at me yet again, but this time, his stare is hollow. Seemingly moments ago, it was full of life, full of hope, no... full of belief that the surgery would be successful.

It wasn’t. As such, we lost everything. Everything has become hollow, both he and I have become so too.

I grab another piece of stone from the cabinet to start over. This time small and fragile. Impassively placing it above the many remnants of my failures.

Wiping away the tears, I lifted the tools once more, preparing to carve out his heart, like his death did to mine.