build me up from bones, wrap me up in skin
hold me close enough to breathe me in
She dreams even when she is wide awake.
The bright summer sun tries to steal her sight, so she closes her eyes and keeps her thoughts spinning. Against her tightly pressed eyelids, against a backdrop of pure white light, Radiant takes herself somewhere else. She shivers as the snow falls gently on her back, despite the humidity of a Tephran day. It piles up quickly, filling the few nooks and crannies of her youthful body that haven’t already curved and smoothed out. The tarnished rust of her sleek hide becomes hidden beneath a cozy snowsuit. She smiles when the fast-falling flakes land on her lashes, her lips – she has been transported to the Tundra of her mother’s stories, a daughter of ice and snow.
In the distance, a polar bear’s growl dissipates in a yawning cave (the wave stretches thin on the shore in front of her, rattles the shells; this sound she has no audible counterpart to make pretend for). She thinks she would be brave enough to meet the mammoth mammal, given the chance. Or at least, she would love to see the creature from a safe distance, to study its massive paws and slow, ambling gait. Father had described them in such detail that they were more like memories than musings. Of course, father describes every bit of flora and fauna he comes across – she has been well-schooled in plenty she hasn’t yet experienced herself.
The mind-game grows long as she hears the splash of the penguins in the frigid water (the dolphins race along the coast) and walks through ankle-high, freshly fallen snow (the sand pulling at her feet, sinking her deeper into the land with each step). Finally, her white blanket melts from her shoulders and is replaced by the all too familiar cloak of sulfurous, sticky air.
Radiant opens eyes like chipped amber, stares across the waves and sighs. Oh, how she wishes she had enough snow and ice to cover this land! Maybe her parents would be happier, then, maybe they’d come back. But she is not strong enough, not yet. Maybe not ever. The yearling allows the tightness in her chest a moment longer before turning away, leaving her worry with the sea. She breathes in clean air and smiles a little because it will be all right. It always is. Besides, she always has her dreams.
