come away, o child, to the waters and the wild for the world is more full of weeping than you can understand
I do not love the sea.
I could blame the dreams, perhaps. The truth is more visceral; more primitive. I am meant to fly, to soar; my falcon’s wings do not belong to the shoreline, to the white-capped waves. I am only a transient upon the waterfront.
I am there only because I know it is where he went.
He. The Sovereign of Solterra. Orestes. Lover of Marisol. Father of Gunhilde and, and, well—
Me.
My father.
Gone.
When I had first noticed his absence, I had assumed he had gone to Solterra. Our last night had been full of laughter and joy—whenever my father came from the desert, he brought with him the merits of it, the sunshine, the warmth. Our nights stretched long, and always, always, I begged, Just one more story, or please, another game!
There is one thing I had never doubted before.
I had never doubted that he loved me.
One of my earliest memories is of the too-soft fur of Ariel, soft like innocence, softer than silk or the gossamer on a peach’s skin. It is of the golden glow and the warmth he possessed; the energy he radiated, purer than any other I have yet to encounter. It felt like the sunshine does through the cold; gentle; reminding; compassionate. One of my earliest memories is of resting between the Sun Lion’s great paws, listening as my father said affectionately:
There are some bonds that transcend lifetimes. We live in a world where we measure everything as if it is material—including our souls. We eventually dispose of everything—clothing rips and tears, jewelry tarnish, weapons rust, and bodies… well, bodies, they can… decay.
Then, I had been too young to understand. Even now, I don’t know if I understand. The sea before me is stark; the clouds hang low upon the horizon, pregnant with spring rain. Everything in the world is growing; everything is fresh and vibrant and new. Except for me. Except for the red light that wanes from me as if I, myself, am the setting sun.
I don’t understand, I had said. I remember that; how the words had tasted so promising, as if he might give me the knowledge to unlock the paradox of understanding, as if the knowledge in and of itself was something I had wanted to possess.
(It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t. To understand means that I have seen both sides of the same coin: the having, and the loss. The love, and the absence. The growth, and the decay).
Let me ask you a question, he had said. If you were to stay in this room as I walked into the other and shut the door, would I be gone?
I had laughed, I remember. I had laughed high and bright as a wind chime; and Ariel had licked my brow, short and fast and playfully, before standing. Of course not, silly, I had said. You would only be on the other side of the door.
Staring now at the sea, I can remember his expression almost perfectly. The gleam in his too-blue eyes, like a joke unspoken; mischievous, as old and wily as the ocean herself. He had said uncannily, “Then why do we feel as if when someone we love leaves or dies, they are truly gone? Maybe they are simply in another room, one our bodies cannot reach but our souls can.
“WHERE ARE YOU!” My voice, hoarse and too-loud, surprises me. A trio of sandpipers move more hurriedly away; and a seagull screams back. The waves go shush, shush, shush and their calmness infuriates me. “WHY DID YOU LEAVE?”
I am screaming into nothing; I am screaming into the impassive face of an ocean that doesn’t care. But there is no where else for me to go, except for the beginning of where he left and the end of where I knew him.
“There isn’t another room,” I call, more softly. “There isn’t.”
There’s only this one. And in this one, my heart is broken wide open, and the one person I want--the one person I need... I can no longer reach.
I could blame the dreams, perhaps. The truth is more visceral; more primitive. I am meant to fly, to soar; my falcon’s wings do not belong to the shoreline, to the white-capped waves. I am only a transient upon the waterfront.
I am there only because I know it is where he went.
He. The Sovereign of Solterra. Orestes. Lover of Marisol. Father of Gunhilde and, and, well—
Me.
My father.
Gone.
When I had first noticed his absence, I had assumed he had gone to Solterra. Our last night had been full of laughter and joy—whenever my father came from the desert, he brought with him the merits of it, the sunshine, the warmth. Our nights stretched long, and always, always, I begged, Just one more story, or please, another game!
There is one thing I had never doubted before.
I had never doubted that he loved me.
One of my earliest memories is of the too-soft fur of Ariel, soft like innocence, softer than silk or the gossamer on a peach’s skin. It is of the golden glow and the warmth he possessed; the energy he radiated, purer than any other I have yet to encounter. It felt like the sunshine does through the cold; gentle; reminding; compassionate. One of my earliest memories is of resting between the Sun Lion’s great paws, listening as my father said affectionately:
There are some bonds that transcend lifetimes. We live in a world where we measure everything as if it is material—including our souls. We eventually dispose of everything—clothing rips and tears, jewelry tarnish, weapons rust, and bodies… well, bodies, they can… decay.
Then, I had been too young to understand. Even now, I don’t know if I understand. The sea before me is stark; the clouds hang low upon the horizon, pregnant with spring rain. Everything in the world is growing; everything is fresh and vibrant and new. Except for me. Except for the red light that wanes from me as if I, myself, am the setting sun.
I don’t understand, I had said. I remember that; how the words had tasted so promising, as if he might give me the knowledge to unlock the paradox of understanding, as if the knowledge in and of itself was something I had wanted to possess.
(It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t. To understand means that I have seen both sides of the same coin: the having, and the loss. The love, and the absence. The growth, and the decay).
Let me ask you a question, he had said. If you were to stay in this room as I walked into the other and shut the door, would I be gone?
I had laughed, I remember. I had laughed high and bright as a wind chime; and Ariel had licked my brow, short and fast and playfully, before standing. Of course not, silly, I had said. You would only be on the other side of the door.
Staring now at the sea, I can remember his expression almost perfectly. The gleam in his too-blue eyes, like a joke unspoken; mischievous, as old and wily as the ocean herself. He had said uncannily, “Then why do we feel as if when someone we love leaves or dies, they are truly gone? Maybe they are simply in another room, one our bodies cannot reach but our souls can.
“WHERE ARE YOU!” My voice, hoarse and too-loud, surprises me. A trio of sandpipers move more hurriedly away; and a seagull screams back. The waves go shush, shush, shush and their calmness infuriates me. “WHY DID YOU LEAVE?”
I am screaming into nothing; I am screaming into the impassive face of an ocean that doesn’t care. But there is no where else for me to go, except for the beginning of where he left and the end of where I knew him.
“There isn’t another room,” I call, more softly. “There isn’t.”
There’s only this one. And in this one, my heart is broken wide open, and the one person I want--the one person I need... I can no longer reach.
