They say it isn’t possible-- they say that I’ve made it up, took a thought and grew a memory from it-- but I remember my life before I was born. My world was defined by only three things: the darkness, the rhythmic beat of my mother’s heart, and my sister curled up next to me. I remember the pure, infinite contentment, back before I didn’t know how much more there was.
And when we were born into the storm, beneath the church-tree with its angry glass leaves (I would always think of them as angry, for in my earliest memories they are backlit by lightning), the world multiplied a thousandfold. There was so much light, and color, and scent.
I thought we would experience it all. But eventually I learned enough to realize I would never know the edge of the world. I realized that every new sight, every accomplishment, would unlock the opportunity for two more; the more I experienced, the more there was to experience. This was a good thing-- a great thing, or else life would be so small and boring. But it also filled me with despair to think of the impossibility of knowing and seeing and doing everything. It was the realization that I would never again be truly, completely, content.
Sometimes I think back to that time before we were born, and I long for that peaceful ignorance. I long for that sense of closeness, and that innocence.
Sometimes, remembering the way my mother’s heartbeat echoed around us almost makes me cry. I wanted to go back to that time, pause, stay there forever.
Instead, life had taken us so very far from each other. As my sister and I took a moment to watch our wolves wrestle, I wondered if they remembered their mother, and their siblings, and the clutches of death we-- Avesta-- saved them from. And in that moment I felt so full of love and relief and gratitude, it was a moment in time I will cherish for the rest of my life.
Why did we step away from the tide? I did not know, but as we walked inland I glanced behind me in search of anything nefarious in the ocean’s gentle, raspy dance. I saw nothing but the same water I always knew and loved, and I frowned. I did not understand. Worse-- I did not know how to ask. All I had to say was “why?” but for some reason that seemed impossible. Maybe I didn’t really want to know, not yet. So I just went along with it, and resolved to ponder this oddity later. Alone.
“I’m so proud of you. And Isra and Eik and Fable…” I don’t remember exactly when or why I had started calling my parents by their names. It started a little before they returned-- I felt I had grown up enough to recognize my parents were not omnipotent, and calling them by name was a pleasing reminder of that. With age came wisdom, of course, but they didn’t know everything. They were just as mortal as me (well-- at least that’s what I thought back then) and at the end of the day they had just as little clue as I did what the next day would bring.
I could sense, in the way she pressed her shoulder to mine, a question. Avesta did not beg, but in that gesture was coded the closest thing to it. My belly was an ocean, raging against the shore that caged it on all sides. In my chest was a wolf, and it bristled at the thought of whatever it could be that she saw, felt, did which could not be easily shared. I knew in my heart she would do anything I asked of her, tell me any truth. It just never occurred to me before there were things that if asked, could hurt. It was not a power I wanted. So I withheld, and pressed back into her with all the love I could muster.
“I wish I stayed.”
I drew away to look at her. It is a look of flat, quiet disbelief. Not offended, just… “oh really.” I didn’t believe her. Not because of the way she said the words, or because I didn’t want to believe her (I did), but because she was my sister, and though I might not always understand what went on inside her head or within her soul, I knew that if she stayed behind she would have been miserable. She was made of stronger, bolder, stanger stuff than me; if we were characters in a story, I would be the sentinel and she would be the heroine.
“I wish I went with you. I should have been there too.” But I did not regret the choice I had made, as much pain as it had brought to myself and others. I had to forcefully live without regret, or else I would be lost to it. It was hard, to wish I had gone with them but not regret staying. Always in my mind there was some kind of balancing act going on. "The boys are so big now." My attention had returned to the wolves as their joyful playing spun out to something more aggressive. Happy yips were interspersed with upset yelps-- teeth had grown sharper and jaws stronger since they last tumbled. "How tall do you think they'll get? What if they never stop growing?! They could be as big as Fable someday." I stepped back to stand shoulder to shoulder with my sister, and tried to soak in the indelible comfort of her touch.
@Avesta <3 oops this is all over the place
