Time
It has been ten years to the day. Ten years since he died. And it still hurts to think about him.
Every year on this day, I make the journey to the place where he is buried. I've forced myself to go ten times. Why do I torture myself like this? Because, although I'll never admit it to anyone else, I love him.
Loved, I remind myself bitterly.
I stand quietly, my face shrouded, at the back of the huge crowd that has gathered. Hard to believe that someone hated him enough to murder him, when so many people are here, mourning him. It just goes to show you that, even if you stop a war, not everyone will love you.
I let my mind wander, and I recall the day I heard the news…
x x x
I was away from home, practicing my waterbending. I heard someone running toward me. I turned to see my brother coming down the hill to where I was.
"Katara!" he called to me, his face grave.
"Sokka," I asked. "What's wrong?"
He choked up, and simply handed me a small piece of paper. It was folded in half. One the front was the emblem of a foreign nation. I opened it, and began to read.
My breath caught in my throat. "No," I gasped.
My brother hung his head. "I'm sorry." He turned to go. I made to effort to stop him. I needed to be alone.
Once Sokka was out of sight, I broke down. I cried long and hard. I spent the night out there on the ice. When I went back to the village the next morning, I was a different person.
No one could comfort me. Not Sokka, not my father, not Gran Gran or Pakku. No one in the tribe felt the blow as hard as I did. I was broken inside…
x x x
Several people speak about his courage and greatness. Then everyone goes up, one by one, to kneel before the grave and pray. It's the same every year.
I wait patiently, until the last family has gone, just as I have done in every year that has passed. Once the area is clear, I move toward the grave. My steps are slow.
I fall to my knees before his grave. My calm façade dissolves into tears. I look at the tombstone. It only has four letters and a symbol: his name and the emblem of his nation. Just as he once told me he wanted.
"I miss you," I whisper, my voice rough from crying, my cheeks wet. "The world isn't the same anymore, without you." I suck in a ragged breath. "I wish you were still here." I continue, my voice shaking, "I wish I could tell you… I wish I told you when you were with me." My voice breaks on the last words, fresh tears streaming down my face.
I place my hand over my heart.
They say that time heals all wounds. They don't know what they're talking about. The wounds never really heal; you carry them with you your whole life. All time does is dull the pain, so it's bearable day to day. But them you go and think of that person, and the wound rips open again.
I lose track of time as I sit, my face wet with tears, staring at his name carved into the stone. The sky darkens. I stand to leave, until next year. "Goodbye."