"The More I Wonder"
I wonder as I look under the skies. I wonder, and I love.
Upon thinking this, I smile, realizing that I've paraphrased a line from a book I've loved. "The more I wonder, he say, the more I love." The thought brings a bit of a sigh along witht the small smile.
I do miss you, you know. And there's no way that I can replace you, for anything in the world. No matter how long life drags me down its path, I'll wake up, thinking only one thing.
I want you here with me.
I want you here, the way you used to be. I want to take day trips up into the forests and bike like Muggles do. I always enjoyed doing Muggle things with you, Sirius. You always seemed pleased, knowing that you weren't behaving as a pureblood might.
Of course, you always found Muggles fascinating. I recall your flying motorbike, and our various excursions into the wilderness on it. It was a most lovely way to get to the mountains, even if we flew for quite a distance. When we touched down upon the ground, surrounded by nothing but green trees gathering night in their branches, stones, and the unending sky, I would feel as if I were still flying. More than just still flying, but as if I were better than flying. Upon the ground, alone with you, my stomach flew higher than it ever did when we were in the air.
Returning was not so nice. Returning, stiff and covered in needles and whatever else may have littered our campsite's floor, to the real world, the world where we were expected to be human, be unattached to anyone and everyone, was not a treat after an escape into the real real world.
I never understood why Nature is not considered the real world, Sirius. The buildings and roads that populate "civilization" mar the Earth's natural beauty. Ah, well. A city has charm, but nothing compares to the rugged, untrodden beauty of our hideaways.
I don't go anywhere near them any more. For one thing, I have no means of transportation to them. More importantly, there is no point without you, Padfoot. I wish we could visit the woods once more. A last glimpse at what our world could have been, nearly twenty years ago, would have set me much more at peace.
One thing is true of me: I get hopelessly romantic about bygone times, Sirius. I should shut up now. I should stand up from where I am laying next to your memorial marker, one I erected myself in my garden. I shouldn't wallow in the past--rather, I should remember you fondly, without all this melodrama, and move on.
I don't want to, though, Sirius. For the time, I don't think that gazing at your carefully carved name, tracing the stone's willow trees with my finger, should be too harmful. After all, no matter how far I distance myself from the past, I can't deny one thing:
I miss you, Sirius.
I wonder as I look under the skies. I wonder, and I love.
Upon thinking this, I smile, realizing that I've paraphrased a line from a book I've loved. "The more I wonder, he say, the more I love." The thought brings a bit of a sigh along witht the small smile.
I do miss you, you know. And there's no way that I can replace you, for anything in the world. No matter how long life drags me down its path, I'll wake up, thinking only one thing.
I want you here with me.
I want you here, the way you used to be. I want to take day trips up into the forests and bike like Muggles do. I always enjoyed doing Muggle things with you, Sirius. You always seemed pleased, knowing that you weren't behaving as a pureblood might.
Of course, you always found Muggles fascinating. I recall your flying motorbike, and our various excursions into the wilderness on it. It was a most lovely way to get to the mountains, even if we flew for quite a distance. When we touched down upon the ground, surrounded by nothing but green trees gathering night in their branches, stones, and the unending sky, I would feel as if I were still flying. More than just still flying, but as if I were better than flying. Upon the ground, alone with you, my stomach flew higher than it ever did when we were in the air.
Returning was not so nice. Returning, stiff and covered in needles and whatever else may have littered our campsite's floor, to the real world, the world where we were expected to be human, be unattached to anyone and everyone, was not a treat after an escape into the real real world.
I never understood why Nature is not considered the real world, Sirius. The buildings and roads that populate "civilization" mar the Earth's natural beauty. Ah, well. A city has charm, but nothing compares to the rugged, untrodden beauty of our hideaways.
I don't go anywhere near them any more. For one thing, I have no means of transportation to them. More importantly, there is no point without you, Padfoot. I wish we could visit the woods once more. A last glimpse at what our world could have been, nearly twenty years ago, would have set me much more at peace.
One thing is true of me: I get hopelessly romantic about bygone times, Sirius. I should shut up now. I should stand up from where I am laying next to your memorial marker, one I erected myself in my garden. I shouldn't wallow in the past--rather, I should remember you fondly, without all this melodrama, and move on.
I don't want to, though, Sirius. For the time, I don't think that gazing at your carefully carved name, tracing the stone's willow trees with my finger, should be too harmful. After all, no matter how far I distance myself from the past, I can't deny one thing:
I miss you, Sirius.