Kalimac (Meriadoc)
I can draw a circle, with a lot of tangled fuzz on top, two dots for the eyes and a wide, wide curve for a smile, and you will know that it is me.
I can draw swans flying in tight formation—an arrow tip flying southward, the shape of the rune "o" you said—and you will know that I've spent an afternoon lying on the hammock, gazing at the sky, watching and listening lazily for birds. They go south to find warmth, you once said to me, on that very same hammock, my head pillowed on your shoulder and the world was warm and earth-colored around us.
I can draw a wicker basket full of apples and jutting loaves of bread, a tattered hat and two stout poles and the small blue boat that we always chose when you took me fishing, and you will know I have gone fishing with Dad. We never did catch any fish, did we, when we set off just the two of us? You said my prattle scared the fish away and I said the way you fish, people would think you were trying to lure books rather than fish from that quiet pool, seeing as you stuck your nose into whatever book you happened to read, mindless of your pole even when it suddenly started to twitch. Is there any fishing spot as cool and as shady in Hobbiton? Who goes fishing with you now?
I can draw buns, and cupcakes, and pies, and rolls, and jars of jam and honey, and you know that I have just had a picnic. Do you remember those picnics we had? Do you have picnics in Hobbiton too? They will be different, I suppose, from those you had with us here. You do not have to keep an eye on us, my friends and I, the little lads and lasses. You do not have to always think up games and songs to keep us amused. You do not have sleepy, tired, cranky little hobbits to carry to the boat at the end of the day. Mamma reads me the letters you send for us. It seems you go to an awful lot of parties in Hobbiton, because Cousin Bilbo wants to introduce his new heir to everyone. There are dances and feasts and picnics with hobbits your age, and you seem to enjoy their company so much.
Mamma says "About time that lad have had friends he doesn't have to kneel to kiss." And her words make me sad. I cannot remember when I did not think of you as my special friend, and that I am yours. I have no brother, no sister; you have no one. It always seemed like a perfect arrangement. It never really bothered me that there is a 14-year age difference between us. It never mattered. Unlike other tweens, you can still see the magic in a tail-less bronze lizard or the dried husk left in the bushes after the grass snake changes its skin. I never thought that those wonders were not enough, and that only Bilbo can truly fill the void that I could not even see. I am happy to know that you enjoy Hobbiton. But can we be special friends again? Maybe when I am a bit bigger and we can share more than a hammock and a swing?
I can draw leaf-shapes and colored them red and brown with Dad's special ink, and you will know that I have been helping to rake the fallen leaves. Last year we still did it together. The gardener was so thankful that he gave each of us a bag of nuts. But when he left to fetch his wheelbarrow, you looked at me from the corner of your eye, and together we jumped onto the heap of leaves. It was warm there; a bit ticklish, but soft. Then you ran off with an armful of leaves and I ran after you, scooping my own bundle, laughing as I chased you. And we threw the leaves with a flourish to the water of the Brandywine and the river looked beautiful: golden brown, speckled with red and yellow and orange. You slung one hand around my shoulder as we watched the leaves drift away.
And I asked you, "Aren't the trees sad to lose their leaves?"
You looked at me and smiled, "Why, Merry. They will have new leaves in spring, won't they?"
"But what about the leaves? Do they feel sad because they have to go?"
You knelt and brushed my curls aside. "My Merry," you said. "I don't think they feel sad. They have many memories with the trees: sunshine and wind and rain and little hobbit lads sitting on the branch munching apples. They just have other places to go now, those leaves, so they can make new memories."
"Do you think the trees miss them?" I asked, relentless.
"Maybe they do. But they also have to go on living. And to live is to be happy, Merry."
You are not here this autumn, when I scatter leaves on the Brandywine.
My quill wanders aimlessly now on the paper I have filled with wordless stories, trailing into a shapeless tangle of confusion until the ink runs out. I can draw many things: stars, flowers, ponies. But how do I draw longing? How do I draw love?
I can draw a circle, with a lot of tangled fuzz on top, two dots for the eyes and a wide, wide curve for a smile, with tiny uneven strokes for hands, feet and body. That is me. And beside it I draw another face, another body; taller now, bigger, but with a smile as wide as mine. That is you. And we are holding hands.
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