for @rennybu
There is a knot in her throat, and she cannot speak the words she wants to. Abigail knows she had a voice once, but has lost it since. She no longer remembers the sound. Her voice is replaced with motion, twisting fingers, swirling signs. Others fill her with their empty notions of pity, sorrow of what has been cut from her. They see only what is missing. Not her. Never her. Fearnot reaches out, holds Abigail’s hands in hers, and takes her words with her. There is a kindness in her, a gentleness the likes of which she’s never known. She learns her language. They make their own.
They speak it in the dead of night, breath against the nape of her neck. They find words in the way she holds her face in her hands, brushing gently against her cheek. It is the loudest in the quiet. Abigail hums quietly as she does up Fearnot’s hair, winding pale golden fields against the sky at dusk, the shy purple which holds back the moon. Fearnot tilts her head back, and looks up at her. It’s all Abigail can do but smile back, lean down, and press the kiss to her forehead.
She was born in loss. She still feels the sting of all the souls she has loved and loss. She is afraid, but this – she does not think she could let go of her. Abigail watches Fearnot walk through the house, thinking to herself and unknowing of any onlookers, practicing sign with every step. It’s all she can do to promise to protect her, keep her safe. It’s all she can to love her the best she can. With her, beside her, hand in hers… she feels whole again.