"Our
birth is but a sleeping and a forgetting;
The
soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath
had elsewhere its setting,
And
cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness,
And
not in utter nakedness,
But
trailing clouds of glory do we come…"
-Intimations
of Immortality-
Wordsworth
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Somewhere down the long line of years- years strung upon a cord of rough hide, and only gliding into silk with time and age; years knotted awkwardly, and at times solemnly, with straight, simple knots that leave no room for dreams; years tied beautifully with elaborate bows and desires; and some tied far simpler, in row after row of endless passing that blend together so as to be quickly forgotten- she finds herself alone. It is morning, and she is watching the sun, watching the shadows grow and shrink in turns so swift and sorrowful that it reminds her of nothing she has ever seen, nothing she has ever known, except for maybe in passing slumber.
The light, it holds to her wrists, like a bracelet carved of ancient stone. She remembers seeing one a long time ago, molded in the shape of many oliphants, tiny and small, their trunks connected to their neighbor's tails in a fastidious row of marching, frozen still. The bracelet had been carved of the animal's tusks, and she had felt an impassable grief while holding it, if grief was what is truly was. She had tried hard not to think of the curious knobs and angles as bones (the remains of everything and anything), but as mere slots of stone, as sentries of the earth, grown silent, still.
She can still hear their calls, even now. Especially now.
And the light, the early morning beam and tremor, reminds her of the plains she once had kissed and groveled at. She has tried to capture the same light in glass bottles, golden hued and ancient, sitting up against the windows- but nothing can hold the light, or at least the exact shade she searches for. It is the shade of her childhood, and her mind has yellowed and sanctified it, so that its memory is sweet and tinged with a winsomeness she never knew as a young girl. Yet she is unaware of this charade.
Her fingertips begin to examine and probe at the bones of her face; softly, as though she is afraid to mar the lining of skin and the mummer's collection of history that is painted across it. For she is a portrait of the past: however hard she tries to be Éowyn of Ithilien she will always be the unshod light of felicity among the plains of Rohan. And her step is still heavy with foreboding, her arm still tingles with anticipation, though now it is mixed with regret and the longing that comes after having lived too long.
She has fallen asleep here, and she longs to awake once more. Each dawn has its own light, and hers has come and passed. She should have slept that day amidst the rising sun's thrown disks; amidst the falling, fallen men. And then, an awakening within fields of tulips bright, and not among the blossoms of rot and blood and whispered last words. Even now she can remember that moment of freedom, of her soul rising and struggling free into the eternal summons that man hastens to but once in his life:
Man, only once; the slayer- (for she was no man!)- twice; though the second time will no doubt greet her in less of that gilded glory.
There is much now that she longs for, but she has learned to abase and hide her thoughts and steps within locked cupboards and the smile of a lady clothed in white; a lady unspoiled; a lady with no memory of what once was. The light of the golden bottles captures little, and her hands grasp at nothing. Death is a welcomed and secret lover, and she will hold her hands out to him only when the time is ripe and finally thickens round about her breath in a perfumed spell of forgotten flowers. Not before, nor after.
For she will not take away from her beloved the gift she's given him; she will not lay herself to sleep upon the crown of the mourning tomb while he still smiles and holds life dear. She carries her promise close, and now she wraps her arms about herself, for the dawn has passed and the morning is come, and the years of her life are no longer slipping past (how can they now? For the fragile dew has fallen through both soil and rock, and the light of love is full and hastens with its cheer, and the grass; the splendour in the grass has not yet gone for him!).
She will greet this day like any other, and will tie another knot into the strip of days and years; a bow so delicate, so lovely and refined, that it will take more than a narrow glance to notice the tourniquet beneath its perfect symmetry; beneath its perfect knot.
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