Tell Me How

Sometimes I am vibrant, a rainforest teeming with life, pleasant and not. Other times I am a dry withered husk, holding ghosts, half-remembered. Between brief moments of being fertile ground full of slowly unfurling ideas, I am sterile and unforgiving terrain.

I wonder what it would have been like to love you. I would have collected your smiles, hoarded and treasured them. I would have learned you, and recognized the shadows in your eyes. If I couldn’t brush them away I would stroke your brow and we could share our solitude. I would have cherished every bit of you, even the ones you would do without. I would have kissed your hurts away, even those I couldn’t see. I may not have embraced your quirks and differences but I would have accepted you, which is infinitely more important. I would have tried to coax softness into your eyes and done my hardest to paint laugh lines at the corners of your eyes and mouth. I would not have tried to mold you, only let us temper each other. My fingers would have traced intricate patterns on the inside of your wrist. I would have been held captive by the curve of your jaw. I might have become a student of your lines and arches, and loved architecture. My love would not have been a gentle thing; it would burn fiercely in my chest. If the choice were mine I do not know that I would have chosen that fate. When the wind blows from a certain place, I feel sorrow that I was not able.

I read a story. It was about loss and acceptance. It was about survival. It was about leaving behind love and the horrors of grave responsibility all intertwined. It was about holding on and letting go, and staying true to a memory. It was about many things, and it hurt. The ache lies beneath my lower rib, and in the nexus of throat and collar bone. It left me with wet cheeks and a dry mouth. It was beautiful. Its title came from a Janis Joplin song. It lies in sci-fi fandom, but holds so much human truth. Fiction has broken s me apart and put me together so many times, I no longer recognize my starting point. I wish I knew if I was better for it or worse.

On a mostly unrelated note, it wasn’t just endearing children’s books that Kipling wrote.