Because the World is
by Silver Meteor

There are people who take the heart
out of you, and there are people who
put it back.
––Elizabeth David

VII.

The so sweet sticky bun dances
on my tongue, becoming almost nothing
when I bite it, melting like a
snowfllake of sugar.

The Knight bought it for me, and one
for him, but he didn't eat it.

Right now we are sitting at the river, which
is something I have never done before.
Under the surface of that silver
face, it's moving away from you,
further and further
and it's gone and
you can't even tell.

The tower is black, metal,
and so big that when
the sky falls it will tear
a bit of it off, so
I will climb to the top and use
the tattered bit of sky caught
on the top to make the most
wonderful kite.

I eat his sticky bun.

Can you tell me why people die?

I look at him. His eyes look
desperate but almost relieved,
as if he has been waiting to ask that question
for forever but was too
scared
or ashamed
or both
to ask it.

Not just any people. The people you love. Why? What's the
point of it?

I think hard and take another bite,
but he goes on before
I can think of the answer.

Just when everything's going to be wonderful again,
the Knight says, but his voice goes rigid,
so it won't give away
how said it is. They're taken away
Is it some kind of
joke?

I ask him if it's funny when people die,
because if it wasn't
then it wouldn't be a joke.
He closes up on the inside and
I know that what
I said was not what he
wanted me to say.

The Knight mumbles an apology,
why he was so stupid enough to talk like that,
especially to a little girl,
he must be going mad.
It's just that it's so hard.

He cups his head in his hands,
like it's too heavy to hold up by
itself. He doesn't speak for a while.

The sun starts to fall, and
the last specks of cloud colored from the light
drift and fade and shimmer
just like birds who swoop
down but avoid the ground at the last
moment.

My mum died, I say.
It wasn't funny.
He looks at me like he
just noticed I'm still here.
I'm sorry, he says,
and it's like he means it.
I. . . I'd just thought that. . .
That woman was your mother.

Oh no, I say,
When I lived at the castle,
that's when she died.
My mum lived there. And she would
sing, and she would dance,
and everyone loved her.

He looks at me, and his eyes look a
little odd. Sort of. . . lighter.
I decide he wants to hear more.
My fingers twitch, words and
pictures float out of the
muddle to my eyes
and everything
just
shifts,
and I tell a story.

She was an Enchantress, see,
and when she lived there
all the lords and kings and princes
in their robes and crowns came to see
her dance for them, and would come
back and stay there forever.
She was called The Lady
Morgana,
and she had dark hair like
the sky inbetween all the stars
and she sang with
a girl they called Diamond,
(but her real name was something like
Satin. Sometimes Satin would play
with me.)
who she taught how to
do magic.
And they came to see them every night.
And she would dress me up
in gowns and lace, with jewels
in my hair and wings, and kiss
my nose.

But she died, so I went to live with Hellie.

Did you say ? he asks.
He looks like a starving child looks
when you hold out the last
piece of bread out in front of him.
And her real name was ?

He grabs my shoulder very hard,
and in an instant I twist away,
impossible for him to hold.

Wait! he calls. Please,
please you have to tell me.
Was her name ?
Please,

and he sounds so desperate,
just like a starving child I have
to stop. I
turn and look at him, and this is
what I see:

A woman, behind him. She isn't
standing, she's an image:
Red, like a tropical flower, a
sunset,
a ruby. Her hair's twisting about,
flowing with the wind, and she's
got wings.
Only these wings aren't the special
pigeon ones I once danced with
at midnight,
they are real.
She has the kindest ocean eyes, and
she is smiling
at
me.

I just can't go on anymore, the Knight cries,
falling to his knees, even though
the streets are caked
with the filth and
slime of this old city.
She was there, alive, so alive, singing,
and then she was gone, ripped away,
and it's so cold. . .
She told me to write our story, but it
only tortures me. I can't. . . .
I want to die.

I look at the Angel, and I realize
what she wants me to say.

So I say it.
You have to go on, I say.

Because this world is about living and dying and wanting for
yesterday.
This world is about spring and winter and summer and autumn,
the cool breeze in the flowers that no one finds the time to look at.

Because this world is huge and small at the same time, where
everyone looks for a home in other's hearts.
This world is about magic in the secret places that no one looks for magic in,
and the gift of a late night story about the stars.

Because this world is about pain and peace and
waking up one sunny morning and realizing that it doesn't hurt so much.
This world is about dreaming and wishing and remembering and
waking up one day and realizing you've missed so much.

Because this world is about winning and losing and then
realizing that those two things are least important things in the entire
crazy world.
This world is about loving and tears and dark, helpless thoughts
that tear and tear and tear at your heart until it breaks in two.

Because this world is about breaking hearts and waiting for someone to come
and put the pieces back together again.
Because this world is about never understanding it, only guessing it,
and wondering about what comes next.

Because this world is about an adventure, and every life is worth a story
and at least a little love, too.
Because this world is about holding on and letting go, and
whatever you are is entirely up to you.

Because this is your world, and you were meant to live in it, no matter how much it hurts.

And even though I know it's the truth,
the one truth that always changes
yet remains the same,
the one truth worth more than diamonds, it feels
like those words have waited centuries to
be spoken, and they chose me
to say them.
And it scares me.
But only a little.

I run to the edge of the river, the
great tower rising like a
birdcage above the city that
sings like a cadged
bird.
I watch that silver face, and I
wonder where it will end up,
and if it will remember the face of
the little girl
when it gets there.
I look back.

And he is sitting there, hat
in his hand, watching me.

He doesn't know it, but I can
see a beautiful Enchantress Angel behind him,
a Guienivere to his Lance'lot,
red and firery as the
setting sun and purer
than any diamond.

And I'm not scared anymore,
I am free,
and I smile, because:
I know there are two endings to this story.

I will turn and disappear into the being
of the city, peel away
and fly to
somewhere where they need a little girl like
me, with her antique dirty lace under
her rags so they stay
hidden
and a wool cap,
spinning silver yearn from spider
web and
where you can have your very own
set of wings. And the Knight will never
see me again, no one will know
where I went.
It won't hurt anymore.
My story will be one of Danger
and Adventure and Magic, Beauty
and Whispers.
My story will be the most wonderful, because
if I go with the People
it would have happened.

But I know no one would ever hear it.

Or :

He is going to take my hand.
He is going to bring me home.
And I will tell a story.