when all the ships have turned to ash
i will be left unharmed, alone
i will be left unharmed, alone
It takes me longer than it should to place her. The memory emerges nearly unbidden: the girl I glimpsed at the Solterran party with Elena.
Her daughter.
It seems nearly a lifetime ago when Elena admitted to me, by the sea, that she was pregnant and we agreed to never promise one another anything. I cannot understand the depths of such sadness; the desperation Elena had expressed. I cannot understand how that sentiment became this young girl with eyes that are too-blue and a serious, pretty face that reminds me of her mother’s.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what I am supposed to say.
“You don’t have to,” I reply, more softly than I intend. It does not suit me, this softness; but I find that I cannot talk to her in any other way. How could she reply properly? How could she understand the grief of loss, and not only loss as is normal, such as death or tragedy—but the loss that is self-imposed?
All my jagged anger, my hatred at the world; it transforms into something uncertain. She is frowning, and I find that I do not want to make her frown—but cannot think of words that might alter the expression. Did you try looking for them behind the big boulders?
In all my life, I have never experienced this kind of childish innocence.
The severity of my expression, the hardness, lessens. The corner of my mouth twitches; not quite a smile, but something other than a somber, straight line. “I have not, but perhaps that’s what I’ll try next time—“
Or are they… if they are—I could talk to them for you.
This, I do not expect. In fact, it is one of the few times in recent memory that I find myself completely taken aback. I clear my throat. “You could?”
If only they were dead.
☼
Her daughter.
It seems nearly a lifetime ago when Elena admitted to me, by the sea, that she was pregnant and we agreed to never promise one another anything. I cannot understand the depths of such sadness; the desperation Elena had expressed. I cannot understand how that sentiment became this young girl with eyes that are too-blue and a serious, pretty face that reminds me of her mother’s.
I’m sorry, I don’t know what I am supposed to say.
“You don’t have to,” I reply, more softly than I intend. It does not suit me, this softness; but I find that I cannot talk to her in any other way. How could she reply properly? How could she understand the grief of loss, and not only loss as is normal, such as death or tragedy—but the loss that is self-imposed?
All my jagged anger, my hatred at the world; it transforms into something uncertain. She is frowning, and I find that I do not want to make her frown—but cannot think of words that might alter the expression. Did you try looking for them behind the big boulders?
In all my life, I have never experienced this kind of childish innocence.
The severity of my expression, the hardness, lessens. The corner of my mouth twitches; not quite a smile, but something other than a somber, straight line. “I have not, but perhaps that’s what I’ll try next time—“
Or are they… if they are—I could talk to them for you.
This, I do not expect. In fact, it is one of the few times in recent memory that I find myself completely taken aback. I clear my throat. “You could?”
If only they were dead.
@Elliana"speaks" space for notes
