09-09-2015, 05:39 PM
Hello, mom, her beautiful (always beautiful in her mother’s eyes) daughter says. As if she had only been gone a day or two at most.
Her heart could explode when Etro finally appears; that iron clad dam she’s built around her heart has suddenly and inexplicably sprung a leak. But unlike the Little Dutch Boy who put his thumb in the dike’s hole and plugged it, she is no plucky little hero. The trickle of emotion quickly rushes, sending cracks spiraling outward, until the whole structure is doomed. Her children have always had the power to wound her the most. They don’t know it, and they never use it… but they do.
Yael spends a moment simply feasting on the sight of her little girl. Drinking her in, parched and dry mouthed and with her breath caught in her throat. All grown up. Then the trickle becomes a vicious torrent and she can no longer hold back the tears from her eyes. Etro could have said anything, really, and Yael would have sobbed to hear her voice. The golden woman inhales loudly, jaw quivering as her chest tightens and tightens and tightens. They do not speak of Van’s death. She just keeps on living and is grateful for the tree and their respect and silence. “Etro…” she finally chokes out, unwilling to force the sickness on her (it must be made of her own volition, she won’t make her baby girl endure that, too) and thus, only takes a hesitant step towards her.
“Etro....” she tries again. “Your fazer…” she tries to continue on. But Yael can say no more, her frail-looking body shaking with a grief that still decimates her after… good lord, how many years? Far too many. How has she lived this long without him? But perhaps their daughter can guess, for what else would make Yael lose her composure in public? She has always been the epitome of Queenly grace, even she she stepped down. She finally displays her mortality, here, before her daughter, in a way she has never done before.
Her heart could explode when Etro finally appears; that iron clad dam she’s built around her heart has suddenly and inexplicably sprung a leak. But unlike the Little Dutch Boy who put his thumb in the dike’s hole and plugged it, she is no plucky little hero. The trickle of emotion quickly rushes, sending cracks spiraling outward, until the whole structure is doomed. Her children have always had the power to wound her the most. They don’t know it, and they never use it… but they do.
Yael spends a moment simply feasting on the sight of her little girl. Drinking her in, parched and dry mouthed and with her breath caught in her throat. All grown up. Then the trickle becomes a vicious torrent and she can no longer hold back the tears from her eyes. Etro could have said anything, really, and Yael would have sobbed to hear her voice. The golden woman inhales loudly, jaw quivering as her chest tightens and tightens and tightens. They do not speak of Van’s death. She just keeps on living and is grateful for the tree and their respect and silence. “Etro…” she finally chokes out, unwilling to force the sickness on her (it must be made of her own volition, she won’t make her baby girl endure that, too) and thus, only takes a hesitant step towards her.
“Etro....” she tries again. “Your fazer…” she tries to continue on. But Yael can say no more, her frail-looking body shaking with a grief that still decimates her after… good lord, how many years? Far too many. How has she lived this long without him? But perhaps their daughter can guess, for what else would make Yael lose her composure in public? She has always been the epitome of Queenly grace, even she she stepped down. She finally displays her mortality, here, before her daughter, in a way she has never done before.
Yael, guardian of the desert