#windblowncinders

[forgivenunforgottens]

But did I bring it

[forgivenunforgottens]

Ten tiny fingers splay across unshaven cheeks. The touch is more caring than curious, the stern lines of that face long since committed to memory. At an age when her beliefs are as ever-changing as the tide, one thing remains certain. She adores her Papa.

[ Have some music❀→  X ]

He’s glad for her youth, glad for the innocence, for the blissful ignorance it brings. For the fact his tiny angel cannot tell yet that there are lines on his face surpassing the number of years she’s been alive. Lines branded on his flesh and soul, markings of years survived, fewer of years lived. Erik is grateful for her, grateful for her mother’s eyes and the small smiles and even the warmly glowing memories of nights spent arguing who’s child she was at three in the morning. Happy that she may never grow to question why her hands differ from his, why his seem like tools and less like the medium needed to explore this grand wide world and reach for everything that she wants.

He’s grateful for the blooming recognition of his face’s sketch-lines, all these things that make him who he is. He’s entirely enveloped by the thought that she is, in this moment happy. His job is done, as far as he can tell. He’s glad, on some breeze-quiet level, that she will not know enough years to suffer the wicked and gnarled world around her.

And if he could, Erik would return the inquiring little gesture of fingerprints imprinting on his skin and soul and the soft touch of ashes as they disperse back into the world of dreams where his precious Anya remains out of reach.

And if he could cry, he would, even if he knows it’s too late to extinguish the flames.

[forgivenunforgottens]

How would you describe your relationship with your children? All of them.

Pietro: “What relationship. On a good day it’s volatile and self-combusting.”

Wanda: “Summed up; I try. She does make it an easier task than her twin, and for that I’m grateful if not blessed. Still shamefully rocky.”

Lorna: “Neglectful”

Anya: “Too fleeting, a piece of shrapnel that will never be dislodged, never heal, and never cease to hurt.”

Brigit yeah sure why not: "She’s still in the womb, by default this makes her possibly the only child I’m on good terms with."

[forgivenunforgottens]

windblowncinders replied to your post:Sunrise is still an hour away according to his...

//Why is your writing so beautiful?

WHat did I do

[magnetisedcatharsis]

Anya, I don't even know where to begin with this. Matka always told me we don't speak of the dead. She told me that it was bad luck and a gateway to unwanted attentions from sinister powers not of this world. I think she would've made an exception for you. I can't fathom speaking or thinking of you ever bringing anything other than joy. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You were the rainbow in the middle of a downpour, the sun that came after a lifetime of snow. You were my angel, and I guess…now that's perhaps a little more literal than I'd like to admit. I'm sorry I failed you the way I did. I'm sorry that I ever left to go across the street to the grocer to fetch something for supper. I should've taken you with me. I should've insisted. Maybe if I had, you'd be here beside me now. Or maybe even pulling faces at my sentimentality and sensitivity to thinks that were rooted in the past. Sometimes I wonder what you'd look like now, full grown and matured - an adult in the prime of her life. I wonder if you'd look like me or perhaps more like your father. Maybe you'd be somewhere in the middle, the link that joins us both. I know you'd beautiful and I know you'd bring joy to a world that is sorely deprived of it now. But God needed you more. Maybe he got lonely up there, and needed a little girl to come and sit on a plush white cloud and tell him jokes about pixies and stories about all the adventures you'd imagined in your head. I like to think of some of the ones you used to tell me, especially when it's stormy. They're precious fragments of you that I don't ever want to let go of. I can't bring myself to forget, or to erase such creativity and exuberance. I miss you, mój mały gołąb. I miss you so much it hurts. But I guess I'll just have to cling to the old proverbs and hope they hold true - We only part to meet again. Dać wieczne odpoczywanie. - Matka x

[magnetisedcatharsis]

She's exhausted nearly every clean surface, each sheet of ruled paper, every scrap of stationary, crumpled bits she's certain no one needs. Even the creamy flesh of her arm has been patterned with the same collection of letters. An idea strikes her and she skips over to her mother, who is bustling about doing some odd chore or another. Boldly, she takes the woman's hand, her penmanship blocky, but neat. With a proud smile, she steps back to admire her handiwork. 'EISENHARDT' in bold, black ink.

Magda and language have never gone hand in hand. The ability to read and write is a talent that struck her later in life, borne of countless hours nagging Max to teach her - when frustration had finally overwhelmed her. She knew only smatterings of German before Anya was born, a necessity from her time in the camp, but it’s Polish that she reads now for the most part unless it’s vital. She knows how hard it is to pick up a pen, knows how many hours it takes to master which stroke to make and which loop to curve her letters into, regardless of the language. It’s for this reason perhaps that she makes no move of protest when a tiny hand reaches for her own and begin’s it’s creative adventure. At first the brunette presumes it’s a doodle, that she’s being coloured in luminous shades again for some mischievous purpose, but as her eyes flick down to spy not purple, but black, Magda can’t help but feel a surge of pride at her daughter’s new found talent, and a redeeming degree of love for the name now emblazoned upon her skin. She doesn’t bother to hide the grin that follows, the smile stretching from ear to ear as she reaches forth and scoops up her firstborn into a twirl of a hug. “Dobrze zrobione!"