It has been strange, to raise a child again. He had done so poorly with Sleaze, bumbling him along, guided by a mock religion that had brough him some modicum of comfort at the time. And then, of course, he’d left with no word, and no idea of what had become of the boy – his own child!
God only knows.
It’s been better, with Bad, he thinks – the boy has his own oddities, a quickness that sometimes unsettles Garbage. And the way his body ripples sometimes, a promise of something beneath. But he has kept the boy alive, if nothing else, and now, with Bad a gangly yearling, Garbage can set off on his own without much dread.
He doesn’t know what he looks for, this morning, only feels the draw of the meadow. Agetta is on his mind, but she often is, so he does not assign any particular symbolism to it. Part of him still aches from her kindness, from her forgiveness, but he has not seen her in months and the unquiet part of him worries that she has decided enough is enough and has excised him from her life.
It's in the morning light that he finds her – and finds more.
A reversal of their earlier meeting, almost perfectly. This time, she is the one with a child at her side, white and shimmering in rainbow colors. Another mirror image from his own dark son.
(He does not know, yet, that the children are half-siblings, that the dark god came to her in white.)
“Oh,” he says, and he almost laughs at the strangeness of it, mixed with the joy he always feels when he sees her.
“Agetta,” he says, “she’s beautiful.”
Another echo. Another strange, strange meeting.
@[Agetta]