One day, the ocean would share all its sad, mournful memories with me. It would tell me a story about the man named Orestes. I would cry.
But that first day, the day we met, the magic in me was wild and fickle. It was just a trickling stream where there would come to be raging waters. I could hear the sea whispering but I could not make out its words. I could sense how the sand sighed with longing but I could not discern exactly why.
(Even back then I was patient, which is not so different from being damn stubborn. In fact I was both, through and through. Before I can remember, I had made up my mind to master my magic, and my intent was so clear and so strong I felt the fabric of the world slowly shifting to accommodate it.)
The sea seemed to inhale deeply as he approached. I’ve been told I have a wild imagination. Over the years, some have even called it foolish. Useless. But I knew what I knew, and I was quite certain the sea was holding its breath at the sight of the golden man. I simply could not figure out why. The sea, the sand, the Western wind would not tell me.
I did not like feeling conspired against and so at first I did not like this man, even though he shone like the sun. Even though I immediately had a thousand questions for him. I wanted terribly to read the stories gilded in his skin, but I was too proud and too shy to let myself look for too long. I suspected they were sad stories. Those were the best kind.
The sea still had not exhaled, until he said “it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” And then its breath came tumbling, cool and salty against my cheek. In those days I did not understand love. I did not understand much of anything outside my close-knit family. So I thought his words were stupid, because of course the sea was beautiful. It was like calling the sea wet, or big, or god-- all empty words, because everyone knew they were true. Right?
I did not answer his stupid question, but I smiled a little at the queerness of his words. It was not until much later that I realized I wanted him to think highly of me. I was not a stupid girl and it was important to me that he realized this. I could not be bribed with stupid conversation.
The next thing he said initially struck me as stupid, but something about it caught me off guard. I bit my lip, unsure of how to proceed. If I had been a little older, a little more confident in my understanding of the world, I would have laughed at him. If I had been a little bolder, a little more like sister, I would have bared my teeth like a wolf and told him he was an idiot.
But I was kind, my ultimate weakness, and I did not want to break this silly man’s heart with the truth. Of course, I had only the slightest idea what this man’s heart was like-- the vague outline of it, backlit like a seagull flying into the sun. I did not realize how much bigger hearts could be on the inside. How many rooms were in there, each with so many trinkets and memories stashed away in it. I knew how easily a heart could break. I did not know how it could mend itself, sometimes stronger and more beautiful than before.
I stopped biting my lip because the taste of metal began to fill my tongue. And because it was my turn to speak. “I’m pretty sure you can’t buy love.” More importantly, I wouldn’t want to. I had the strong sense that love must be earned, or else it was just a kind of slavery.
But older people didn’t want to hear my thoughts. I knew this because everyone was older, and no one wanted to know my thoughts. “But I’ll take one for my sister. She can make it dance.” I could hear the pride in my voice. My sister was and is everything. When I spoke of myself, the pride faded. My tone was matter of fact, nothing good or bad. “And I can make it speak to me.” It might even tell me a story about the palomino. Even if it was just the memory of the man’s touch.
@Orestes <3
