You cannot own sand. Grab it, and it will spill between your fingers. Gather it into a bottle, and some will always escape. The tiny rocks, the little grains that make it up may appear soft, but they will be coarse in your hand, rubbing and scratching against them.
There was a woman once. A kind one, but she made Cliegg think of sand—no one would own her. Not because she was wild or fierce, but simply because there was something in the way she held herself, how she walked. She knew who she was and where she was headed.
It was quite ironic that she was a slave—although, he didn't know that when he had met her first.
Men like Cliegg were not rare on Tattooine—solid like rock, they weathered the desert, the attacks from Sand People and threats from the Hutts. And like rock, they were worn away day by day. Theirs were stories of endurance, not of passion.
In that Shmi and Cliegg were the same—they endured.
What happened between them had not been a love story. Those—even in places such as Tattooine—happened between those that had nothing to lose and all to gain. A freeborn maiden with a blaster might steal away her beloved in the depth of the night. Or a young slave might find the ingenuity to disable his transmitter and bomb, and escape to the one they love.
Those were the stories of clandestine meetings in the light of the moons, of stolen kisses and secret words. What business did a farmer with a son have acting like a callow youth? In the night, he had to be on his farm, in case anything broke or the Tusken attacked.
Both of them needed the rest, because every next day would bring more toil—never-ending and always the same.
So Shmi and Cliegg had never met under the stars. They had never traded secrets. Theirs were meetings of chance in bright sun. Theirs were conversations over the counter of Watto's shop—of the daily chores that waited for them once they would finish their chat. Of their children—how Lars was skilled with mechanics, just like Shmi's son, Anakin, had been; how the Jedi had won little Ani and taken him to live a better life. Of work—which vaporators are best and how to coax them to work when they were reaching the end of their lifecycle; how to fix machines and droids.
Shmi didn't not feel her heart flutter when she saw Cliegg, and he did not feel his mouth go dry when he was to talk with her. They were just two people, talking in a shop. Perhaps slightly more than acquaintances, but no more than distant friends—if that was possible between a slave and a free man.
Although, no—to say that Shmi's heartbeat had always steady would be a lie. One day, it had beat faster—with fear and hope.
"It's not right that Watto has not freed you," Cliegg had once said. He was, after all, a good man. Slaves might have been a fact of life and rising against the Hutts was not feasible, but Watto? Watto was a shop-keeper.
Cliegg could not convince Jabba to free his slaves, but he could speak with Watto.
"This won't work," Shmi said. "A Jedi had tried to free me once, and Watto fought him. He is… as kind a master as one could ask, but he is also a businessman. He will see freeing me as a loss." She sighed.
"And if someone were to buy you…" Cliegg said slowly, "and then decided to free you…"
"They'd have to convince Watto they have a good reason to buy a woman past her prime," Shmi replied. Love stories were not for slaves past her prime and weather-beaten moisture farmers, but people took what was not theirs all the time. "You come often and I heard some other customers joke."
She was careful not say anything out-loud, to make it look like an innocuous change of subject and not a suggestion. But she knew Cliegg long enough to believe he'd catch on.
"I suppose the joke would be on them, then," Cliegg replied and smiled.
The next day, Shmi gave Cliegg a little treasure she had kept for some time now. It had not been precious stone or metals—it was a small generator, of far better quality that one could buy from Watto. Before, it would only make her think of Ani, but now... She could not use it on her own, but another... That day, for the first time, since the Jedi had taken Ani away, Shmi put her trust in the kindness of a free man.
Theirs had not been a love story. In fact, it had never been one story at all, but two, running in parallel.
The tale of the sand, which might have yielded to the desert winds, but had slipped out of the grip of the one who'd own her.
The tale of the rock, which had been weathering the winds until they eroded it away.
They had lived side by side for years, because it had worked so far, because where will an ex-slave past her prime go, excuse after excuse after excuse, until they seeped into their skin and stayed there—unrealized, unsaid and asleep. It had become a comfort, a familiar thing.
And maybe, sometimes Shmi would look to the stars and think of little Ani, so clever, so brave. And maybe, sometimes Cliegg would hesitate when Lars asked him if he loved his mother the way he loved Shmi.
But life went on—and they both knew it was not their lot to grasp for things, but to endure and that was easier, if they were side by side. Walking in the same direction.
Both even had even happy ends of sorts—Shmi had died in the arms of her son, knowing that he'd come for her, that he was strong and free. Cliegg died with his son at his side, and with Beru Whitsun nearby, knowing that they would live on.
The sands took them both—for while you could not own sand, all that was on Tattooine belonged to the desert.