A Thousand Years More
She used to tend the gardens all the time. Now she gardens with a needle and thread, little knotted rosebuds, tulips made of silk stitches and given life. Her needlepoint is still stronger than her words, which are thin like spider webs and often flicked away at a moment's notice.
But those spider webs always come back.
And when you take a look at a spider web, be careful to see what rests there; if you disturb the patterns and tear at its fragile nuance, they will multiply, loop around and use your fingers as yolk. Their grip will drag you down.
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She talks to Juri, casually--not over tea, the flavor is bitter--but over coffee and soft drinks and whiskey and gin. Stirring her coffee, she talks of bones blooming open, roses into hips and hips into roses. Rose hips. Of walking back and forth as though nursing a lullaby within: seashells, bells, ivy, over, under, the rhythm of the sea. Then she takes a sip from her mug, the coffee rounding out her words, deepening her intonation.
Juri looks at her fingers, nails that used to be all pale like little pink seashells. Today, they are cracking and unevenly cut. Anthy notices her gaze, and says, "I like them better this way."
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Of hips: one day she woke up and they were there, ready and waiting like a new Porsche with six keys in the system. That day, she dressed as though she were dressing for war. She didn't want her hips to take her anywhere. When she put on her clothing, each fiber was a pin dragging itself throughout her body. With each step she walked, her feet stung; and when she removed her pumps, the soles of her feet were red.
Now she has thick hands and wears thick shoes. On days when she does not work, she will force herself to walk.
And when she looks into the mirror the next week, she will see a wrinkle on her palm. She will smile.
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Come back, come back, the sea will call her.
(Sometimes she will wake up tired in the dark and brush her hair out with water, a gleaming mass that she can never fully smooth out by morning. She will not mind.)
Come back, come back, Ohtori Academy will beckon.
(At night, the apartment walls will look as though they are bleached white. And if she tilts her head just so, the shadows on the ceiling will seem almost black.)
She will not.
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On her desk is an old picture frame. There is no photo inside, just scraps on little pieces of paper that she folds over and over and over in callused hands for a long time. After she eats a dinner of warm baked bread and butter and even eggs, she stares at it.
She has stared at it for a long time: for what feels longer than war and strife, longer than 'eternity' and desire. Certainly longer than miracles or passion or any shining thing.
And if she looks closely, she can still see the imprint of two hands, tightly clasped. Another hand there in hers, surely as callused and worn and warm as her own.
That is enough.