When my not minding the loneliness
Was only the ignorance of my bliss with you.
When my pain of loneliness
Was but my learning to fear losing you.
So then, I will be born again in your arms
To Be Born Again, Clover
Fulfillment
The park unfolded across the hills, black and immense against the pale green sky. It unfurled slowly, occasionally swelling into fantastical peaks and plunging into queer valleys. The park seemed impossible and grotesque like a nightmare, fragile and inchoate, on the rim of waking.
And through this landscape walked a child, a dream herself, graceful and ephemeral and slight, with her sensitive, tremulous mouth and luminous, sorrowful eyes. And she was the most fragile and terrible dream of all.
She stepped lightly, her bare feet seeming to glide along the pavement, and hummed softly to herself. The notes dropped, one by one, into the glassy night. The night endured, however, absolute, unmoved. Only the monstrous forms of the whirligigs crouched silently, listening.
The child looked up, smiling, and raised her voice so that it echoed, gently, clearly, across the deserted park. She knew that they listened as she had listened to that same song, so long ago, sung by that disembodied voice over the phone. And she knew that they understood as she had understood, insensate and unmoving as they were.
For it was a song of happiness.
She walked along the quiet streets, still singing. She passed the roller coaster, the fountain, and the whirling teacups, which now sat idle and motionless. Her eyes would stray, now and again, over the great, gay wrecks of the whimsical machines and the empty shells of buildings. She felt regret, a sense of loss over their bright brief life, and a strange affinity. She understood the grief and the finality.
She halted before the ferris wheel. It hung in the twilit sky, broken and derelict, like a bauble carelessly handled and flung aside. Its seats swung empty in the air and its colored lights glimmered blankly in the faint radiance of the young moon. The girl laid a loving hand upon the rusted hulk. The ferris wheel began to revolve, slowly, its lights sparking to life, its tinny music jangling. She smiled slightly as she listened to bright, garish melody.
This, she thought, is joy.
She listened for another moment before she drew away. The ferris wheel abruptly stopped, dark and still once more.
She turned away and resumed her song.
She winged her way to the heart of the park, her white dress billowing out in the wind. A slender finger of metal speared through the soft folds of night. She drifted towards it, until darkness and distance slipped away, and the outline of a woman rose, enormous but graceful, against the horizon. The girl stopped before it. It was a fairy, cast in bronze, her great wings extended, her arms embracing the sky. Through the thick patina on the beautiful face, the child discerned a smile, gentle and loving. The girl placed her hand against the statute's cheek and softly kissed the cold mouth.
This, she thought, is friendship.
She caressed its face one last time and left.
She crossed the shadow of the carousel. The carousel began to whirl, the gaudy horses and sleighs bobbing up and down in time to the music. Lights, pink, red, and white, scattered across the slick black pavement. She paused, letting the lights patter down upon her upturned face.
From the corner of her eye, a crooked light flashed. Looking up, she spied her pale face reflected in the mirrors lining the wooden canopy in intermittent bursts. And though she expected to see herself reflected in that dim silver oval, she started all the same. For in the frenzied flurry of lights, a strange brightness glittered cold upon her cheeks.
Tears, she wondered, bewildered. She touched her face, felt the chill damp on her skin. But why am I crying?
Then she remembered – a gentle smile and a strong hand. Her heart gave a queer little beat – a pulse of pain, and wonder, and a deep, trembling joy. And it was then she realized the meaning of those tears.
She lifted her face to the sky as if in appeal. But she knew it held no relief and no answer. She stood, her small hands clutching at her heart, her thin shoulders shaking, the violence of her grief almost too great for her frame.
Gradually, she grew still, her face calm and sweet. She knew what she must do. She had to accept both the grief and the finality. For these were the burdens she vowed she would bear.
Only – for one last time, one last wish. But she had already had it, her first and last. She could not ask for one more. After all, she had promised.
She set out once more but she did not sing. To her left, the moon rose full, flooding the park with its blue light.
At last she reached her destination. The exit. She stopped beneath the arch, bracing herself against the wrought iron post, pluming herself for that one final flight.
And then she saw him, standing against the moon. For a long while, she gazed at the familiar silhouette, disbelief and hope struggling within her. A phantom, she realized, nothing more. Still, she understood.
One final wish born from her heart.
Longing rose within her. She stepped forward, pulled toward him by her unspeakable happiness.
He turned to her as she whispered his name. She could see his smile in the gloom. He beckoned to her, one hand reaching out in welcome.
This, she thought, is love.
She ran to him, her arms stretched forth.
And the park crumbled.