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11-16-2013, 11:28 AM
My daughter,
Everything is so quiet since you left. The wind is ever colder with the turn of seasons; every winter, I count the days until spring and wonder whether this will be the last. My daughter, my love, I have seen things you will never even imagine. I have traveled – you know me for a wanderer – and the wonders I have seen…
Oh, my daughter, my love, my darling one, I wish you had not run. I wish you understood, that you opened your eyes to the truth – but you were always a stupid little girl, a liar.
There is still time, though. Every summer and every winter I will think of you and wait your return.
For you will return, my daughter. You will. Doubt me not.
The sun rose, and I hunted.
The forest broke in gold, in green and brown. In every shadow I saw hers; in every nook I saw her eyes peering back at mine; in the hollow of trees, I heard the sound of her laughter. Yet it was never she: it was the scurrying of a squirrel, the cry of a songbird or the laughter of the wind. I would look into a pool and think I saw her in the slim ripple of a fish.
I was going quite insane.
I was not entirely sure I cared.
One night I woke heart in throat and copper in mouth and she was not there.
Then the desert broke and became trees, became prairies and shorelines and seas, and the trees closed in and spanned as far as the eyes could see; the wings folded over my back, caught on bramble and leaf and twig. I saw horses from time to time, small and large and dangerous looking; I hadn’t spoken to a single soul in more than a month, perhaps even longer. I hadn’t flown in… I could not even remember the last time I took to the skies.
There was magic here, in this place, the magic I was drawn to for one reason or another. I did not know what here was – or whether it was even the right way. I went on anyway, because I had no choice.
Time tends to shift when you do not sleep, or rest, or even properly stop.
Everything is so quiet since you left. The wind is ever colder with the turn of seasons; every winter, I count the days until spring and wonder whether this will be the last. My daughter, my love, I have seen things you will never even imagine. I have traveled – you know me for a wanderer – and the wonders I have seen…
Oh, my daughter, my love, my darling one, I wish you had not run. I wish you understood, that you opened your eyes to the truth – but you were always a stupid little girl, a liar.
There is still time, though. Every summer and every winter I will think of you and wait your return.
For you will return, my daughter. You will. Doubt me not.
Your loving mother,
Always in wait.
Always in wait.
*
The sun rose, and I hunted.
The forest broke in gold, in green and brown. In every shadow I saw hers; in every nook I saw her eyes peering back at mine; in the hollow of trees, I heard the sound of her laughter. Yet it was never she: it was the scurrying of a squirrel, the cry of a songbird or the laughter of the wind. I would look into a pool and think I saw her in the slim ripple of a fish.
I was going quite insane.
I was not entirely sure I cared.
One night I woke heart in throat and copper in mouth and she was not there.
Then the desert broke and became trees, became prairies and shorelines and seas, and the trees closed in and spanned as far as the eyes could see; the wings folded over my back, caught on bramble and leaf and twig. I saw horses from time to time, small and large and dangerous looking; I hadn’t spoken to a single soul in more than a month, perhaps even longer. I hadn’t flown in… I could not even remember the last time I took to the skies.
There was magic here, in this place, the magic I was drawn to for one reason or another. I did not know what here was – or whether it was even the right way. I went on anyway, because I had no choice.
Time tends to shift when you do not sleep, or rest, or even properly stop.
Meraki.
“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.”
— T. S. Eliot
