682. thoughts upon the day

ed note: Kyra's notes on the day of departure. Believed to have been written within the first days on Bravo.


I looked upon his eyes and they looked larger, bluer, still as a morning lake.

Pale grey eyes to match the rain, the sky, the withering of my heart.

His hands, too, felt larger as he held my shoulders, taking measure as if a clothier, a tailor who sees as a painter sees.

The day was cold, a steel rain and my feet became wet, numb, planted on the deck of the dock, wanting to root to this place where before my eyes was all I knew of love, of all that had breathed life into me.

He seemed, eye and skin, as some patriarchal elephant, majestic folds of skin, of eyes that held me fixed, of movement deliberate, tracing my features as I did his, as two taking the mask of memory.

All round were others, each lost in their own partings, tears in concert with the rain, arms reaching forth as sun to the branch as branch to sun as the ripe fruit mature for that moment known, forever known to come, to fall, this silent hammer, to fall beyond the ear, even beyond the eye.

His lips came to my cheek and I thought of Grand, of the times they must have embraced, of the love they shared for so many years and the love, perhaps, soon, they would share again; and in this moment, less than but a second it seems now, I felt a sinking, a molting, of what, I could not say other than if, if with a wave of hand, the vessel upon my back could depart to my eye upon it, wave my hand would wave and drive we would the path we drove, this wretched day, this horrid occasion, the sunder of the unseen.

We stood, our breath rolling forth, his, then mine, one, then, the other and I felt a spinning, is if on a merry-go-round, rising and falling, spinning round to the love in a smile, of a grandfather's joy, to the postcard of memory no time could touch.

As his thumbs wiped the tears, there again, as before the fireflies, as on those summer beaches, that warmth, again and as if to do only what I could my eyes released what my tongue could not and he, standing as he always stood, standing as the mountain in winter, absorbed my pouring forth, took as vase to flower, of cup to tea, of me, as before, as now, as I would always remember.

He pulled me as one pulls breath, within, dissolving my resistance into him and chest to chest we were as the ocean, as before Valla, the gentle rising, the warmth of sun, upon cheek, of waters alive in the palette of blue and silver, of laughter and giggles, of being held in his hands, his love; as if he knew, this day, today, would come.

Round my hooded head, as so many times before, his elbow held me as the trees of Valla did so many years before, as I watched him upon the deck, painting, arms wide, of Grand sitting, watching, just watching him, the two of them, some dance in the painting, the sitting, together. I could not then, as now I cannot explain it. How they did it. How even in just this scene, this moment, how the two of them danced in the tilt of a head, the lilt of a voice, the angle of an arm raised, of the quiet watching, as if together they breathed.