Short Story: At Last

by MO

You, whom no one else knows, not like I do, sit there in silent reverie, and I, for once, do not know what it is written on your face.  You stare into the embers in front of you, your face impassable.  Your eyes look amber in the reflecting light.  I move toward you; behind you.  I can feel the heat coming off of you.  After all these years, dear, I know it is your heat, not that from the blaze.  But your heat is no longer comforting, like it was for so many years, not too long ago it seems, and yet and eternity, when your innocence was still intact. Now the heat is rage.   

Silent rage.  

You show no outward signs of emotion, your face a blank canvas, but I can feel your grief painting a masterpiece.  No, not a masterpiece, a catastrophe.  In the, oh so, many years I have known you, dear, I have only seen you cry twice.  I know you hate it, crying, and more so to be seen.  You think it is weakness, for you.  You have never shown that crying is weakness in others, like me, dear, but you pride yourself on strength, your strong demeanor.  Not tears.  But I think it makes you all the more strong.  It makes you human, not the shell I see far too often.   

I come up behind you, my arms encircling your waist, my head falling to your shoulder, and I can barely feel your breathing.  These moments are rare, moments when you accept affection.  You have grown accustom to it over the years, I suppose; is it one of my endearing traits, dear, or does it drive you mad?  I am always hugging you, just to make sure you=re there, alive, to snap you back to reality, to the present.  You spend so much time dwelling in the past.  Too much time.  What could have been, what should have been.  But you don=t change the past, dear, you grow from it.   

And what matters is now.   

And even rarer are the moments you seek affection, reassurance.  There was that night not too long ago, just after he had died.  Do you remember, dear? You came to me.  You seemed so lost that night.  Didn=t know what to do now, you said.  Do you remember what I told you, dear?   

We go on.   

All you wanted was to feel.  Feel hope and love, instead of pain.  And I damn everyone who has ever denied you that. I hope I helped lead you back that day. 

 That same look is in your eyes now, dear.  And, oh, I do wish I could make it go away forever.  But you have changed now, dear.  You will not seek what you so obviously need.  You=re scared.  You will deny it, but I know it.  You=re scared for us.  Not for yourself, but for all of us left.  You tried to push us away, dear.  You said you had lost too many already, you wouldn=t let it continue.  But we didn=t let you, wouldn=t.  Now you=re afraid, dear, afraid you will be right.  You want to seek it, but are afraid of any closeness now.  

 My heart goes out to you.  You seem so weathered, but still so young.  Too young.  Too much grief and too little love in your short time.   

You have turned to look at me.  So much pain, but you manage a small smile for me.  I return it as best I can, but I=m terribly sorry dear, it doesn’t want to come.  I climb next to you, the wood beneath us groaning, and I hug you.  And you hug me back with a fierceness that both shocks me and comforts me.  Reaction is a foreign thing from you these days. A hot drop hits my neck and I know I, too, will follow.  My heart is breaking, dear.  For you.  For everything you=ve had and everything you haven=t.   

 We embrace each other for minutes, hours, days, eternity.  Time doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters.  Except you.  Dear, I wish I could take this pain away.  Take it unto myself.  But all I can do is try to lessen it.   

But, amidst all this, I smile because I begin to feel you resurfacing.  After so many weeks, months of blank expression and heartless talks, I begin to see some of you return.   

And dear, I have missed you so much.