"You really did love her, didn't you?" her voice is so soft he almost mistakes it for the wind. He turns to face her, his eyes opaquely clear, clearly opaque. His legacy has clouded his eyes and at the same time sharpened it to the deadly point of a silver needle. How is it that they see so much, and are blind all the same?
Her eyes are dulled to a soft green, a mellowed vibrancy of worn and tired years. She has no legacy to speak of but her own, forged of lukewarm copper. He hates the pity that spells itself on the rims of her eyes, a slightest sympathy. To him, the sympathy is a mark of shame, a stigma. For her, it is the only love she can offer.
He cannot bear to look at the meek monstrosity before him; he turns his eyes away. Her stare is steady, almost matronly in its gentle seeking, supple persuading. It makes his subconscious squirm, the stoic of all stoics writhing beneath a child's muddy touch.
"You don't have to hide it anymore. It's alright; there's no shame in love, in being fools drowning in it. It's only natural—"
"I know," he interrupts calmly.
She takes a breath, as if to continue, then after a moment of consideration, lets it collapse into a sigh.
"I can't help it." Her gaze drops, head bowing.
(a tulip in winter—that's what she is)
"Can't help what? Stating the obvious?" the words escape before he realizes. The sarcasm saws its metal edge against the words, sending out blue-white sparks, and she flinches imperceptibly.
(he wants to stamp out the metaphor in all its pretty uselessness. why had he thought of it in the first place?)
"You could put it that way." She smiles a weak, water-downed smile.
(not enough tea-leaves, and too much water)
"What other way could you put it?" he asks.
(where's the pungency? he wants a biting taste right now to snap him out of this stupor, not a sick pale one that will remind him more of her…) The smooth gravestone before him shudders with the cold of his thoughts.
"You could say I'm only trying to help."
The laugh is out before he can reel it back. It jerks up and down, a fish with brittle rusted-encrusted scales; a harsh laugh like a crow's thrashing wings. He barely conceals his own surprise. She looks at him, the pity shining brighter on her lashes. (like star dust, almost)
"I don't think that's possible, now," he says. She's gone.
(there he goes again with the poetry)
"That's what someone else said to me, a long time ago," she says, the ends of her lips quirking up, folding sadly. He can imagine her sly, long-lashed wink, but knows it isn't meant for him.
"He was wrong. I thought he was right, once. I really did. He had us both fooled—he had us all fooled. We were so fooled we couldn't even see it…" she trails off. "He didn't want to be saved. He kept running and running and never wanted to stop."
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. The scent of dying cherry blossoms sings of fall and autumn leaves. "I still tried to save him, though. I got so caught up in chasing that I became stuck in the rut alongside with him. Others tried to pull me out, but I just ended up pulling them in. It's funny how gravity works."
There's a pause of in-between, a recollection of her thoughts. She reconsiders the years, the hundred-thousand forks in the roads, wondering where she went wrong and finding that the mistakes are too many to count, and that she's gone into the wrong woods a hundred-thousand times. But somehow she's always made it out…
"I never did save him," she admits wryly. "But that's alright. I'm half-way out of the mud. It's only up to my knees, now."
He looks to her with his sharp white eagle eyes and regal neck juxtaposition. "Then how do you plan to help me?"
"I don't. I can't save you; we both know that."
He waits for an explanation. She shrugs lightly, having none.
"It's up to you to save yourself," she says. She hops from one foot to another, scuffing the petal-strewn dirt with her sandals. "But," she adds, "the question remains."
Here she stops her shuffling and looks to him. "Do you want to be saved?"
He blinks veined marble, taken aback. Do I want what…?
She echoes the question with her somber green eyes and waits like an expectant child for Christmas, hands clasped in front of her. He looks to her and wonders how she can trust him. How does a child's faith work?
Her hand is gentle, her offer open, and her truth sincere. He needs only to reach, to accept…
He looks to the water and finds no reflection but hers.
Myself. Be saved…from myself.
And he steps over the bridge to stand beside this willowy stranger. He touches her hand, the slightest quivering touch, and at that moment a blossom blooms and another one has fallen from the tree. Joy and grief intertwine; they grow on the same vine.
"Yes." The word is a single, quiet ripple of water. "Yes, I want to be saved."
She smiles, a soft-dimpled smile. Her hand extends out to him, and he rests his palm on top of hers. She guides his hand to the tombstone and places it on top of the pulsing cold. At first the cold shocks his palm, but he forces himself not to draw away, even as the glass cold spreads, spiders up his arm. Shivering, eyes closed (he wants to be blind), he traces the frost-bitten letters.
H…
y…
u…
u…
g…
a…
Deep beneath a layer of soft dirt and new winter grasses, he can feel her frozen heart starting to beat.
H…
i…
n…
a…
t…
a.
He smiles blindly.
The lesson begins.