Do your kisses feel the same? Do you still have the same touch? And will you whisper softly, Because you’ve missed me so much? Have you heard all of my prayers, When I laid down at night? And did you feel my body, When I held your pillow tight?
-
Watching Hepsiba was like a residual haunting; a picture playing over and over again in the house. Though she was growing into her own; also fractures of him, still pieces of Essätha shone through her actions in some manners all but too eerie. It made him wonder how much of her charm was natural, and how much was an inherited gift. Anyone could be special; and sweet, coming from any lifestyle but there was an overlapping photo of someone else laid into her that seemed too real.
With a smile that was adoring and frayed with an exhaustion that had never been satisfied all these years, Amon held to the side of the sturdy ladder carefully as he watched his brave little girl. She perched herself in a way that made his heart flip with concern, but he hovered nearby to make sure he was there to catch her, should she take a fall.
“Do the curtains look straight to you?”
“Pull the one on your right a little more inward, I think.”
With hands still so endearingly small, she reached over to tug the fabric a little bit more into place. Her body wobbled, and she leaned to brace a hand against the window, leaving a handprint. The light of the sun was blotted out, but it was still absorbed in the softened caramel of her eyes and in the quirky stiff smile of concentration she wore.
“Better?”
“Much,” he murmured softly, offer out a hand to brace her back as she wavered. “Now come on down, Sibby, you’re going to give me heart failure.”
She scoffed. “I was the one to take them down and wash them, I should be the one to put them back up!”
He almost laughed at her defiance; the burning spirit in her steadfast resolute behavior. Just like his Essie, she picked her battlegrounds in the most obscure places, but he loved her all the same.
Keeping a careful hand pressed lightly to her back, Amon aided in guiding Hepsiba back down the rungs and to the floor. She hopped down the last two proudly, offering him a rebellious smile to his high-pitched gasp and narrowed gaze of unspoken scolding. His spritely little girl liked to push her luck. He just hoped she wouldn’t push it too far.
“Be more careful sweetheart, please,” he mumbled.
“I was careful,” she sang in response, reaching for his arm. “I knew you were here to catch me if I took a fall.”
Oh, how unprepared his heart was for her words. She knew him. She saw through him, like her mother did. Trusted him just as deeply. Yes he would protect her, at all costs. She could count on him for anything, anything at all, and he would never judge her. He would never persecute her or toss her aside. She could make the worst mistakes, and he would still be there to pick her up and offer her a better path; a safer path, to follow.
He sighed deeply, emptying some of the ache from his chest. Though he ignored her smug grin, he did bother to slip the strands of soft-toned ebony loose from her two braids back behind her ears and look down into those vibrant, youthful eyes to feel the parental tug on his heartstrings. How he loved his little girl with all of his very being. The center of his world. The reason for his being.
Sibby giggled, free at heart and untamed still as the wilds. She twirled away from him, her plain summer dress twirling around her ankles as she spun around.
He unlatched the extension on the ladder Abernathy had made for them, and took it down cautiously. His eyes darted across to where she was, always on the edge of overprotective mode.
Joining her over at the dresser too tall for her, Amon watched as she took a rag from a bucket she’d been letting it soak in. Water and mineral oils, a touch of lemon. She wrung it out a few times, and got to work on wiping down the furniture with a large grin plastered on her face.
“You don’t have to do all of that.”
“I know, but I want to help.”
Chuckling softly, Amon picked up a small framed portrait to set on the floor. “There’s nothing else you’d rather be doing?”
Hepsiba shook her head. He reached for the next item on the stand.
“No, daddy. I love spending time with you. Besides,” she chimed in brightly, “helping others makes me feel good. If I can make someone’s life a little easier; a little better, by doing one good deed at a time, then I’ll start somewhere small, and hope I make a difference. I think it would make mom proud. It’s nice to put a smile on someone’s face, don’t you-”
It was too late. As a rush of cold shock and churning emotions conquered him, Amon’s shaky hands fumbled with the porcelain in his hands. It hit the floor, shattering into dozens of chunks and fragments.
There was a stunned silence. Hepsiba instantly reached for his arm, leaving the towel on the dresser.
“Daddy-”
His breath caught. She never met her mother. She never met Essätha, but her mimicry was so spot on, so alike to her that he thought he had to be dreaming, or hallucinating. It was deja vu. She should not know her mother’s phrasing; should not know how to crawl under people’s skin in the manners she could yet she could and she did. She saw through veil’s like a thin sheet of glass, and spoke loudly and proudly of hope and love and happiness and peace like it was the only outcome imaginable. Even on the days when it rained; when it poured and looked as though the sun would never return, she still smiled and would said that the sun would rise again, and all this rain would make the flowers bloom and grow and feed the rivers that spread the lifeblood of water to the animals.
It was a struggle not to hear and see Essätha in her, then. They shared the same heart; the same wisdom, the same personalities that burned bright and you could not forget.
But he could not make sense of how she knew her mother so intimately, without having ever known her. Without ever hearing her voice. Without ever seeing her smile outside of portraits. No novels or papers did her justice. No stories could capture her essence, yet she knew her mother like she knew herself; like she knew her own soul, and it reflected in a prism so alike it made him ache all anew with longing from a wound that could never heal.
He dragged in a deep, shuddering rush of air, and blinked down upon the floor where the remnants of the vase were scattered.
His throat constricted helplessly.
The remains of the vase were almost indistinguishable. The ornate golden handles were broken into pieces. All the carefully painted details of flowers across the soft emerald color were fallen petals, some protruding beneath the dresser. The scaly texture of the winding serpent on the surface, painstakingly carved into the craftsmanship during its molding process, lay in pieces. Its granite mottled pattern, a close resemblance to his late wife, lay everywhere. A single shard, with a perfectly sculpted golden butterscotch eye, seemed to stare back at him.
Amon’s insides shuddered. One of the first year anniversary gifts on their wedding day he had gotten for his darling Essätha; the flowers he had hand painted upon it himself, and he… he had shattered it. Broke it. Lost it as he did her; the piece of furniture not used since her passing that sat in a solemn reminder.
He was numb to Hepsiba’s hand on his arm. Her scared, worried words did not penetrate his skull.
“Sibby sweetheart, would you mind leaving the room?” he rasped, “I don’t want you to get cut on any of these…”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Twisted it into a shape of worry, and finally, murmured a soft, “Yes, daddy.”
He did not hear her walking away. He was too frozen, staring right back into the single eye looking up at him.
He could not replace it.
He would never be able to replace it.
A throaty moan, raspy and thick, tore tore through his chest. It rattled his bones, and made his strained muscles ache.
He collapsed to his knees, a broken man, picking up pieces of his heart with shaking hands.
“Oh my darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry my sweet Essätha. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The door squeaked softly. A bright-eyed, curious Hepsiba peered back in; having been hovering just outside the entry to his chambers.
“Dad?”
Shaking, the nobleman sank lower; clutching a sliver of pottery to his chest as though to fuse it back into him.
Hepsiba’s shoot scuffled nervously against the floor as she slipped back inside, closing it behind her. She made her way over to him cautiously, taking to a knee beside him.
“It’s okay, daddy,” she soothed softly, reaching for him. “It can be fixed. Adela can mend it back together.”
No, it couldn’t. She could repair it whole once more, but it would not be the same. It would know its invisible scars. And what if they could not find every pieces?
It was priceless; irreplaceable. He had destroyed it. He destroyed it like he did all things he handled.
Wrapping her arms around him, Hepsiba held to him tightly, giving an affectionate squeeze.
Amon reached for her frantically, clutching tightly to the last shaft of warm summer light in an endless winter. His weeping raked through him, body and soul. He had enough strength, enough heart, enough arms to hold two. He had enough inside, for two, but he could only hold to one.
And maybe there was another holding on to him. Maybe he just couldn’t see. Maybe it was just the feeling, that never escaped his heart. The yearning. The soft edges of unforgotten love.
But he wished he could still hold that love too, sobbing relentlessly into the arms of his daughter as she consoled him in gentle murmurs that still made him feel at home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It had been days, but it felt like centuries and eternities past before Adela held out the vase to him again. Not seeming to know its importance, she merely grinned at him and brightly exclaimed: “Here you are Amon, good as new!”
He murmured his thanks, quietly, and saw her off with a wary wave. It wasn’t until she was down the street did he feel safe to take it up to the lone living room upstairs to sit upon the sofa, and examine it. Indeed, it appeared flawless. Yet he cradled it to his chest; unwilling to let it go, not wanting to put it down.
A small fist knocked at the threshold wall mindfully. He looked with eyes of a storm, his pupils a cold and dead center to see the nervous tangle of hair falling over a small and timid face. There was a smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lip, and an innocence in how she clung to the front of her shirt. It was a likeness to Essie’s nervous tick; unable to keep fidgety hands still.
“May I come in?”
Although it was not a room, he surmised her inquiry to enter his space. He nodded, scooting over from the center of the cream couch to pat the cushion beside him and offer her a spot.
Hepsiba tiptoed over. She eyed him slowly, catching his glazed-over eyes and the smile that didn’t crinkle his eyes. She slid in to the spot at his side. Her hand reached out for him, but she stopped herself as she realized the precious artifact he was holding.
Leaning the porcelain against his side with his other arm, he offered his daughter his hand. She looked her arm instead through the hole it created, and leaned into his side to rest her palm atop the back of his hand. He laid his arm down loosely, palm resting to his thigh.
“Is it all better now?”
He nodded mutely. “It is.”
She studied his face. Even when he did not look directly into her eyes, she scrunched her nose with knowing.
“… Is the vase important to you because it was mommy’s?”
The nobleman sighed deeply, from the lost part of his breathless soul, and nodded. “Yes, Hepsiba.”
“Are you upset with me that it broke?”
Wide-eyed, he met her gaze this time. “No, sweetheart, of course not. It’s not your fault it broke.”
“But I startled you-?”
How could someone so small, realize so much? Surely most other people would have thought it was a simple slip; a misplaced grasp, a weak handle that had fell away in the hand that made him drop it.
“It wasn’t your fault, Sibby,” Amon stressed, gripping her hand briefly. “I’m not mad. I’m not upset. This isn’t your fault, honey, do you understand?”
She searched his features a few heartbeats longer than necessary, before she finally nodded with understanding.
He sighed, staring back down at the pottery. Its glossy finish still glistened brightly in the sun, making the scales have an iridescent shimmer.
Silence dragged. Hepsiba went from staring at him, to the vase, and back again numerous times. He did not move, a statue of fixation upon his wife’s gift.
“Dad?”
His blank vision stirred to life, staring upon his wife’s final gift to him. Her eyes full of wonder, her youthfully small hands wrapped around his. She appeared quite apprehensive about opening her mouth, and he thought he may have to encourage her to find her words, but she quietly finally managed to find her voice again.
“What was mom like?”
His eyes grew misty. He stared past her, vacantly, into the unknown.
How many stories had they told her? How many tales they could recount?
How could anyone ever describe a woman so perfectly wonderful with words that could not capture her true being; the essence of her beauty and splendor of courage and kindness?
As Amon’s lips tugged into a ghostly form of a smile long-forgotten, he choked, and whispered hoarsely: “A heavenly, gorgeous woman with a tender heart of gold, who gave me some of the most joyous moments of my life.”
He paused. The focus of his eyes realigned; seeing the stare of intrigue and awe in such honest and heartwarming eyes.
His smile grew. “… Including you.”
The child’s expression grew radiant and eager. “Tell me more,” she whispered.
He tried to laugh, but it was strained with hurt. “I met her at the lowest point in my life. She was… glorious,” he sighed gently at the memory. “I never met anyone with so much heart; with so much willingness to help others and an open mind to listen and be sympathetic, and true, and warm. I thought she was utterly stunning right from the start; a delicate and pretty creature, and I had no idea how much she would change my life… I never thought it was possible someone could help me be more me, and retrieve me from the shell I’d been living in for years.”
“She was a brave woman. She put up a fight against anything; no matter the size or the power it held. She had guts, even if she was afraid. If she had an opinion, and she wanted it to be heard, she’d shout it from the top of her lungs until you listening. She fought injustice with ferocity; stood up for the weak and frightened without a second thought. She’d put herself between someone and the snarling words of an oppressor at every turn. She was conscious of the world, and determined to make it better.”
“Your mother was very wise,” he continued on, quieter. “She tried to see the good in everything. She understood things about the world, and about people, that most were too shallow to see. She knew how to comfort, and she seemed to always know the right kind of things to say.”
“She was magic. She was herself; beautiful, true, passionate, strong, gentle. She knew how to make me laugh. She knew how to make people smile, just by being herself. She was pure and rare and something the world could perhaps, not always understand, but her sensitivity made her all the more precious.”
“All I ever wanted, was to return the joy she gave to me back unto her,” he rasped, pulling the vase a little closer as he grew distractedly washed away to the drowning sea of agony. “All I wanted, was to make her happy; to make her feel safe, to share a life with her…”
Sibby’s small hand squeezed his to pull him back to the sandy beach, breathing a bit hard for air. She smiled up at him with a sad understanding.
“Does talking about her make you sad?”
Amon smiled a fraction wider. “… Yes. I miss her, terribly. It hurts, but it also makes me happy, because I get to remember all the wonderful times we had together, and all the adventures we took in the time we had each other.”
Absorbing his words, his little girl nodded slowly. “I bet mother would say a lot of the same things, about you.”
He laughed huskily. “Knowing her, I’m sure she would have. She always thought better of me… Saw better of me, then…” Then I did myself.
When he didn’t finish his statement aloud, Hepsiba cocked her head at him quizzically. He swallowed, clearing his throat and offering a tentative smile.
“Would you do anything to have her back?”
His breath stuck in his throat. Her gaze bore into him. She didn’t seem to realize the weight of her question. Or perhaps she did; and wanted him to do the soul-searching that he tried every day to suffocate beneath the blankets.
Slowly, Amon exhaled. “… I would,” he agreed, softly. “Unfortunately, bringing someone back to life has risks, and can be harrowing on the one brought back.”
“Did you try?”
“… No more questions, Sibby,” Amon hushed gently, bringing his gaze to the floor. “… Not about that. Please.”
He could feel the weight of the small girls stare upon him. She finally nodded, squeezing his hand with reassurance.
“Okay, daddy,” she whispered. “I love you.”
He pulled her tighter against his side; the vase on his other side pressed firmer to his chest too as he placed a kiss atop the young girls head. A single, beaded tear fell into her locks.
“I love you too, sweetheart.”