I remember.
The warmth and the scent and the comfort of her embrace, her kind motherly smile. The gold glow of the Vulcan sun illuminating her face, the thin cloth a crown veiling her human ears and framing her face like a painting. To them, the fellow citizens of this world, of barren scapes of sand and rock and heat, she would always be referred to as Grayson, wife of Sarek of the House Of Surak. To me, a mere child, she was Mother.
I remember. Such a thing, that fatal event, would be difficult to forget.
Her face and her eyes, marked by shock and fear, a world breaking and tumbling behind her. Her image framed by dust and rock of russet and orange and brown tones, toppling and colliding with one another. So near yet still too far, I could never reach her. If I had not relinquished my grasp of her, or perhaps brought her closer...
Try I must, to quiet my mind. Such yearning for that which is lost is illogical, yet I cannot help but allow my mind to wonder what might have been. What could have been, if the story had been written differently.
Although it had nearly succeeded, not a lone tear was shed in that moment. This, in spite of the privacy of an enclosed space, of which I had shared with she to whom I am courted. The magnitude of barely suppressed grief had left me in a prison of numbness. An internment from which I may never be freed.
Along with my world and she who birthed me, I feel a piece of myself had perished that day; that cruel, ominous day. In the clouded scape of repeating dreams, the vision is still clear and vivid and... haunting. Years may pass, and still I silently mourn. Seemingly paralysed by sorrow, I travel my life's path. And yet, still do I not weep.
Perhaps, one day, when at last my grief defeats me, I shall.
END