Love Like a Daughter of Your World
Bells rustle between the tree leaves, chiming ever so softly in his ears as they twirl with the wind. A smile sweeps by his face, lifting the corners of his lips as they get kissed by the breeze. The gentle bellow of it, soft, warm, sun-kissed air cups his face like a lover, like a mother, ghostly hands held in his own before the fade into light. He closes his eyes and lets the information flood him through four senses, and a secret sixth. The breath like a sigh that he parts with is of whispers and emotions, love intermingled and laced through his soul in every ghostly and mortal pore until it is no more distinguishable from the air as is the breeze.
Just like that, his eyes flutter open to the soft singing of trees, to the reverent worship of sunflowers, to the gentle dancing of wheat that shudders with the crescendo, bending and bowing with grace and elegance of a thousand dancers. The wind, having left the tender hold of his hands, twirls between the life surrounding him and tousles his hair. It is neither wild nor chaotic, only playful and loving.
The wheat fields now sing to join the trees. Their voice is that of children laughing merilly, joining their hands in chains to dance rings of pollen and mirth on the breeze that takes them to visit their elders. Joyous, free, like the swallows that darted between nests and pale-white clouds. Puffs of white mixing with those of dandelions, coloured evermore bright and bronze in the settings of the sun.
This fragment of peace. This moment in infinity. This tender home of which he has no part but to be a witness. These are the rolling hills of deeper emotions than what the word ‘home’ could ever mean: Here, where the sun warms soft grass, reflects golden off of wheat braids, and kisses sunflowers like precious children to be loved. Here, where the gusts turn to breeze, because they are beholden by the sun’s gentleness, so rarely is it given. Here, where the trees and wind have a language that is understood by the birds, by the insects, by the pond over yonder. Here, where the clouds play coy with the sun, like lovers, stealing kisses sweet behind sheltered shade.
Here, where he calls home, and home calls to him; but he is ‘other’, even while wholly welcomed as ‘one’. His arm stretches to revel in the sun’s gentle kisses. His hand caresses the soft hair of wheat. His lips find the soft petals of sunflower gold. His lashes flutter, and he’s the only one to catch glimpses of the bells hidden in trees, of the children playing hide-and-seek between stalks and fields.
The wind bellows once, and it rushes past him with a cold northern air, rippling the skirts of his dress more violently than necessary. He has to hold onto his straw hat, lest it runs away from him. Maroon looks up, and sees the clouds shift. Nothing ominous. The rabbits in the edges of the woods shudder, but keep on grazing. He sighs away tension in his shoulders that he hasn’t noticed build up.
He bids farewell to the wheat fields, to the sunflower stalks, to the pond even further. It’s a voiceless whisper that leaves softly-smiling lips, carried by the softest breeze that weaves through the crowds. He spares one last smile, neither happy nor sad, only content as he turns to rejoin the trees.
There, his palms carefully caress the rough bark, gentle and reverent. So many live here. So many call these crevices home. He loves them, bark, the solid barrier and shelter, home of thousands and millions of souls, of insects, of hearts, and birds, and animals who seek to be loved. He places a soft, tender kiss there, trees and bark, home of the lost and wandering. He loves them, resting his forehead against their warmth.
He wants to linger here. He lingers here. Eyes closed and ears listening for the softly chiming bells and the fading laughter of children already unstrung and scattered loose with the wind. He takes a deep breath and lets it out soft and slow, warming the home before him. The rabbits have turned away, returning home. The sun is setting. Night sky will soon be visiting.
Maroon swayed with the wind and the unswayable tree, and thought if he might linger to see it. The undefined darkness of the shadows protected behind the trees shifted and called for him, beckoning. He’d left it alone for too long. He murmurs his soft apologies, his hand passing by the tree’s bark one last, lingering time before it catches on his fingertips, as if wanting to leave a splinter to be remembered by, before they lose contact entirely.
To the shadows, he offers his now undivided attention and smiles, carrying with him the warmth of life pieced together in that home, that haven. He kneels down slowly in their eager midst, his dress flourishing with the motion, haloing his figure on the ground as the shadows poke and prod. They, too, are like curious children, though different. He smiles at them fondly.
He offers them his hands, his arms, his breath, his ears, his gaze. The scents, he selfishly keeps and shares them with no one. They are his way back home. The shadows feast eagerly on the knowledge, on the music, the laughter, the warmth. They graze until the moon stands tall in the midst of the dark blue sky, satiated.
He has already been dozing between them by then, after having divulged murmured stories as if a retelling of bedtime. Fatigue takes him, but not before the shadows coat him in their own now-warmed embrace, like a protective cloak from the cold. They are his bedding, his comfort, his protectors from the dark. His brother, by choice, not blood, also lets his presence known. Child-warrior protector, to each other guardians. They all keep his light safe and sound while he turns away his senses to sleep and rest.
And if he weeps, if he ever wept, then they’d all come forth comforting, be it shadows or wind or sun, children or singers or dancers. They always come for him. They are his home, even when he is always ‘other’. To them, he is ‘one’.
