04-14-2021, 09:47 PM
Leonora
‘You’re afraid,’ the daughter had whispered in the dark.
And Leonora had only nodded because she had been afraid.
Afraid, mostly, that she would never see him again.
That he would never know how beautiful the daughter was or that she thought she loved him but didn’t know what love was supposed to look like. Only knew that she still did not know how to stomach the thought of hurting him, still hadn’t forgotten what it felt to be touched by him.
Afraid that the stars would never return and she would be left adrift without the constellation branded on his neck to orient herself around.
But she had not said those things.
She had only smiled a patient mother’s smile and pretended that it was the kind of fear she could overcome in time. Everything would be all right, she told the daughter, so long as they were together.
And the sun came back after two years of continuous, impenetrable darkness and they emerged something new. Different. And Leonora had said goodbye to the daughter and returned to the meadow, just in case.
It has been days and the heat is thick and oppressive and she yearns for night, aches to bathe in the light of the stars after so many dreadful months without them. It is as the sun begins to sink heavy toward the horizon that she catches a glimpse of something that shines and her heart leaps up into the narrow space at the base of her throat, hitches her breath.
And there he is, standing like a dream, and her heart pounds as she moves toward him slow. As if she does not trust him not to disappear should she move too quickly.
“Pentecost,” she sighs and it feels like coming home, nothing at all like the way she’d gasped his name the last time she’d seen him.
And Leonora had only nodded because she had been afraid.
Afraid, mostly, that she would never see him again.
That he would never know how beautiful the daughter was or that she thought she loved him but didn’t know what love was supposed to look like. Only knew that she still did not know how to stomach the thought of hurting him, still hadn’t forgotten what it felt to be touched by him.
Afraid that the stars would never return and she would be left adrift without the constellation branded on his neck to orient herself around.
But she had not said those things.
She had only smiled a patient mother’s smile and pretended that it was the kind of fear she could overcome in time. Everything would be all right, she told the daughter, so long as they were together.
And the sun came back after two years of continuous, impenetrable darkness and they emerged something new. Different. And Leonora had said goodbye to the daughter and returned to the meadow, just in case.
It has been days and the heat is thick and oppressive and she yearns for night, aches to bathe in the light of the stars after so many dreadful months without them. It is as the sun begins to sink heavy toward the horizon that she catches a glimpse of something that shines and her heart leaps up into the narrow space at the base of her throat, hitches her breath.
And there he is, standing like a dream, and her heart pounds as she moves toward him slow. As if she does not trust him not to disappear should she move too quickly.
“Pentecost,” she sighs and it feels like coming home, nothing at all like the way she’d gasped his name the last time she’d seen him.
AND IN THE DARK I CAN HEAR YOUR HEARTBEAT
@[Pentecost] sorry nOT SORRY