For FreakyGreenEyes, who I believe is the only person who ever reads my stories anymore. -wink- Um... not mine, and all that jazz. I give you. Chapter two.
I stand in awe, silently in the doorway to the kitchen, as Dawn sits, fiddling over homework I always try to make her do.
She's staring up at me with those big blue eyes, bigger than the world, deeper than the ocean, more telling than a song. I've come to realize recently that my universe survives in those eyes; fringed, cradled in thick black eyelashes that she's coated in mascara, accenting the shape of them.
Things haven't been better, not really. But I noticed, yesterday, that she snuggled that damn dog. She still cries, still scrapes sharp nails over her arms when she begs me to make me it stop. Maybe tomorrow she'll eat a meal without me standing over her while she finishes it.
But tonight, she's looking up at me with those big eyes, asking me if I think she's pretty. I almost choke on my laughter. Is she pretty. She's a Summers. But I don't tell her that, because when people refer to her mum, or big sis, those eyes cloud even more, and my universe shrinks, dampens, threatens to fall.
So I tell her everything I wish I could have said to Buffy. That she's amazing, more powerful than the sun, more beautiful and forgiving than the moon, and her laugh sparkles more than the stars.
I tell her the things I wish I had told Joyce, how kind, and brilliant, and loving she was to me; creative and caring as well, strong and safe as houses.
But I tell her everything -she- is to me as well. Everything I'm going to tell her now, so I never regret it. That her smile makes a soul unnecessary, and I'll do anything to keep it there. That she resurrects the poet in me, makes me wish I could find the words to how she blinds me. She's my hope, my proof to goodness in the world. My church, my creed, my faith, and my dearest treasure. And when I run out of words, I look down at my hands, then back at the embodiment of my reverse karma.
And the awe returns to steal what I haven't needed in a hundred years, my breath, as she returns to her Algebra, a smile turning her lips.
I stand in awe, silently in the doorway to the kitchen, as Dawn sits, fiddling over homework I always try to make her do.
She's staring up at me with those big blue eyes, bigger than the world, deeper than the ocean, more telling than a song. I've come to realize recently that my universe survives in those eyes; fringed, cradled in thick black eyelashes that she's coated in mascara, accenting the shape of them.
Things haven't been better, not really. But I noticed, yesterday, that she snuggled that damn dog. She still cries, still scrapes sharp nails over her arms when she begs me to make me it stop. Maybe tomorrow she'll eat a meal without me standing over her while she finishes it.
But tonight, she's looking up at me with those big eyes, asking me if I think she's pretty. I almost choke on my laughter. Is she pretty. She's a Summers. But I don't tell her that, because when people refer to her mum, or big sis, those eyes cloud even more, and my universe shrinks, dampens, threatens to fall.
So I tell her everything I wish I could have said to Buffy. That she's amazing, more powerful than the sun, more beautiful and forgiving than the moon, and her laugh sparkles more than the stars.
I tell her the things I wish I had told Joyce, how kind, and brilliant, and loving she was to me; creative and caring as well, strong and safe as houses.
But I tell her everything -she- is to me as well. Everything I'm going to tell her now, so I never regret it. That her smile makes a soul unnecessary, and I'll do anything to keep it there. That she resurrects the poet in me, makes me wish I could find the words to how she blinds me. She's my hope, my proof to goodness in the world. My church, my creed, my faith, and my dearest treasure. And when I run out of words, I look down at my hands, then back at the embodiment of my reverse karma.
And the awe returns to steal what I haven't needed in a hundred years, my breath, as she returns to her Algebra, a smile turning her lips.