02-10-2024, 09:26 PM
Because happiness throws a shower of sparks
Listen and you’ll hear, distantly, the sound of laughter. Beneath the cricket cry and the soft song of swaying meadow grass, you’ll hear it. And it is the girl who laughs, following swiftly as the deer leap through the underbrush. But she never was so elegant as they were, though she has spent much of her time among them. She was never so light on her feet.
And yet, she follows, imagining that they call to her.
(How many years now has she played this game? How many years has she sequestered herself to the undergrowth of the forest? She has spent so much of her life here.)
Sometimes, though.
Sometimes she returns to the meadow, like it will always be her home only because it was the last place she saw her parents. And maybe family means more than whatever stirs in the heart.
(What is it that calls to her now? What draws her away from the thrilling game of chase? What spurs her out into the open, the sound of her laughter drying in the long column of her throat as she stumbles gaily out into the open? Fate, perhaps. Or remembering.)
She turns her face up to the stars overhead, drawing in a long, steadying breath. And when she lowers her gaze again, she sees him. She sees him and she remembers. Remembers as if it had been only yesterday! And she bounds toward him, grinning.
“Daedalus!” she cries, stopping just short of barreling straight into him. “Daedalus,” she says again, breathless, beaming, “it’s me, Dear.”
And yet, she follows, imagining that they call to her.
(How many years now has she played this game? How many years has she sequestered herself to the undergrowth of the forest? She has spent so much of her life here.)
Sometimes, though.
Sometimes she returns to the meadow, like it will always be her home only because it was the last place she saw her parents. And maybe family means more than whatever stirs in the heart.
(What is it that calls to her now? What draws her away from the thrilling game of chase? What spurs her out into the open, the sound of her laughter drying in the long column of her throat as she stumbles gaily out into the open? Fate, perhaps. Or remembering.)
She turns her face up to the stars overhead, drawing in a long, steadying breath. And when she lowers her gaze again, she sees him. She sees him and she remembers. Remembers as if it had been only yesterday! And she bounds toward him, grinning.
“Daedalus!” she cries, stopping just short of barreling straight into him. “Daedalus,” she says again, breathless, beaming, “it’s me, Dear.”