☼ ISHAK ☼اسحاق
"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"
"Saint Peter don't you call me, 'cause I can't go"
Ruth settles down against you.
Outside, snow builds up and is blown away in equal measures. You watch the dance of it. There’s something strange and beautiful in watching water change like a sand dune.
Reasonable, Ruth had said. She said it slowly, syllables plonking along like foals flinging pebbles into the oasis pool for precision practice. And under the water? You could guess what she was thinking. You’d probably even be right.
Reasonable. Do you deserve the appellation? A reasonable assassin would have taken the first opportunity to flee, wouldn’t they? You’d shake the thought away in another situation, but you’d rather not jostle Ruth.
Instead, you drag the wood pile closer. You tuck the blankets tighter around the two of you. You count Ruth’s breaths waiting for them to even out.
1…, 2…, 3…,
Your father was devout, was he unreasonable to have hope of an answer? If you were someone else, you might open your mouth and push the breath through your lungs to your larynx, might ask. You are not.
1…, 2…, 3…,
Your father was devout, and you know how it sounded when he told you he had already gotten his answer. Hair of your father, eyes of your mother, height that could have come from either… They treated you as the answer to their prayers. How long had they asked for you? They were older (slower, and you think of rapid waters) when they finally had you.
You know once your mother whispered that she thought she would pass through her foal-bearing years with no child at all.
Of course, your father was the sort to consider everything in life a blessing from the gods, so it’s not like it made you any more special.
1…, 2…, 3…,
Finally, Ruth’s breaths settle. The storm is starting to, too, you think.
You let yourself fall asleep.
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