aeneas.
Have you learned to fly yet?
Somehow, her voice belongs there, in my quiet.
It does not interrupt; merely interludes. I do not open my eyes, or answer, at first. I keep my head bowed in quiet prayer, and allow my meditation to continue. I do not focus on internalizing myself, on drawing in all outward sensations to focus on the inward ones. I do the opposite, and know the monks would not approve. I focus on the cold; on the wind that makes the Ponderosas sing just so, a song more endearing to me than that of the sea. It dishevels my feathers; and the cold seeps in, through them, too. I focus on her voice, and they way it makes me feel warm.
Or are you waiting till you grow some more? You look plenty big to me.
It makes me blush; the heat flushes my face but I am thankful for my mother’s dark complexion. I cannot help the way I smile, a haphazard, crooked thing that barely edges my lips. I open my eyes and look at her now, and where my energy had been red and brittle before--well, it becomes a bit lighter, a bit more like summertime.
It is true. I am older, and so is she. I don’t answer, and perhaps that is a bit coy; I know it is because I am too shy to admit that I have not yet flown.
“I see you are already Elli the painter.” The comment is quiet and almost dry, except for the light suggestion of humour in my almost-smile. “I doubt I’m a very good subject.”
Not, you flatter me, by painting me
Not, I’m glad to see you again.
But I am.
Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.
