585. Amaranthine Loyal

Kyra sat, well, actually curled more than sat, curled like a doodlebug, her cloak a shield, holding warmth within and the cold at bay. She curled not by mind but rather by design, by instinct, a sense of circling the wagons, of protecting the organs, of warmth involuting to warmth, and the thought, the thought of the comfort of fetus, of knees pulled into belly, of being covered and sustained, protected and supported, of sound muted and colors faded, all of it felt like a return, a coming home, a place safe, a place where language was left at the door and communication was known by other means.

She listened, voices familiar, warm drunk, eyes closed, tired. Her mind moved, slowly, her body, not so much. A disconnect, it felt, mind and body, one no longer in command of the other, a rebellion, a mutiny, or, perhaps, just a tiredness, a numbness to engage, to participate. Anger not, more apathy it felt, jellyfish like, a floating, boneless, a gentle lapping, shore blurry, shapes indistinct.

Still they talked, spoke, tone given and tone taken, back and forth. Matters discussed, thrown and caught and thrown back and caught and so it went, purpose unknown. She could have cared less and pondered the less in the caring, tasted it, twirled it around her mouth as hard candy, strange, the feeling, not what mom usually served. More words came, knocked and were not so much turned away as ignored, but not so much ignored as not understood. Images of standing at a window, looking out, a neighborhood child is knocking on the door, they want to play, reaching out, seeking connection and, she, just standing, watching from her window, wanting to answer the door but her feet wouldn't move, watching, they knock again, look around, then leave. She watches them go and the feeling is empty and expansive, creamy and suffocating, an odd sense of melting and drowning, not of water, not in water.

He comes, John. His large eyes, glassed with concern, sparkling in worry, say what cannot be said. His hands, strong, virile, masculine in the sense of male, male beyond gender, but male in archetype, male in fit, the square peg to her square need. They, his hands, pull her cloak taut; and, with care, fit button to loop from bottom to top, stopping to survey, as his doctor's eyes must have surveyed many times before, a look of mind racing, holding back forthrightness, replacing it with wardship.

Ariel, primrose hair coruscating in the light of the fount, stood by his side, watching as children watch, with their heart, amaranthine loyal. Her azuline eyes, deep as the watchet sky, blinked not, nor did they wavier. She held the hem of Kyra's cloak as her father lifted, her small pale fingers all the more white for the grip, holding tight without obligation, without exchange, without ledger or want or need. She held for in the holding was not skin and bone or motive or artifice, but the expression of all that is, all that was, all that would to be.

This, and not any other writ or wrote, is how it was. This was Bravo. This was Papa. This was the universal lesson taught on beach and danced on deck, delivered in smiles and wrapped in hugs.