Skin

The young snake stared at the discarded skin he had been so eager to shed. His body ached with a strange pain: it was not the pain of hunger, nor thirst, nor like any injury he'd ever experienced, yet still he ached.

The translucent reflection stared back at him through empty eyes. "Come closer," it seemed to say.

"I was once you."

"I outgrew you," the little serpent said aloud. When the skin did not respond, he continued, "You were constraining me, preventing me from growing. I am young still, with lots more growing to do."

"And yet," challenged the skin, "You mourn me."

"You had served me very well," said the snake. "You were all that is familiar to me about myself. You are the reflection I saw in every still water surface."

"There is more."

The snake thought about the knot that had settled in his stomach. "I suppose I feel guilt about discarding you. I fear I will not recognize myself in this new skin, and I feel a sense of loyalty to the skin that has carried me so far."

"What would have happened had you kept me, and refused to shed?"

"I would not grow," admitted the young serpent.

"You would die," whispered the skin. It went on: "Your growth would stunt, and in your effort to sustain the past, you would cease to exist in the present. Even as adults, snakes still shed the skin that holds them; ours is a kind that lives in a constant state of becoming."

The little snake wept openly, and felt the tightness in his body release as he both mourned and celebrated the loss of his skin. The ghost remained silent. When the snake shed his last tear, he slowly slithered off, weaving between the fallen leaves on the earthen floor.

Empty eyes watched him leave.

THE END