OK, so I have deicded to write a series of drabbles that talk about different points of the Ruth/Harry relationship, bookended by hopeful and happier, more accepting moments that occur after the events of series nine. Think of this as kind of like a jig saw puzzle. Eventually the pieces will all come together, and how they get to the point they do in the first piece of this will make sense.
The poem is a Chinese one translated into English written by Li Shang- Yin the 9th century. I adapted two words slightly because the translation really didn't seem right and it just worked better if I adjusted the word usage.
The story book mentioned is Charlotte's Web.
Past, Falling
(It is a time of priests and tears and flowers full of meaning till at last I am alone to think/ to grieve.)
The guests are gone from the pavilion high,
In the small garden flowers are whirling around.
(I think...it is time for me to think... time to come to some sort of terms of understanding)
There was a shot. There was screaming and the pain of a heart being ripped out of her chest was palpable. There was Nico led away inside, sheltered. There was a small bullet hole and a dead George on the grass of the Nameless House. This makes Greece a tragic interlude, a lost Paradise or does it? She was never truly happy there; not in the word's truest sense. She remembered the wine drinking and the communal cooking and the swimming pool and the lap of an ocean not very far away, but George's smile, it was fading as she fell more and more asleep to that older, simplified life.
There had always been a measured lie about her relationship with George and yet he had not cared in the end. She had looked him in the eye and said, 'my heart is long ago sold to another,' and he had not cared because he had loved her and when you are in love, he had said, you take what small happiness's you can get in the hopes that the sunshine of Summer and Spring will last you another season.
And there had been the brown eyed boy. Motherless. Every morning, for the first month of her seeing George, Nico had brought her flowers; vinca blossoms. Now, at George's funeral he had helped her put a wreath of them on George's coffin.
There was silence but for the two of them. They took little comfort in each other. Nico was going home with You failed me newfound mother wrapped inside his heart and maybe he was right. She was learning how to be bitter and paupered and self absorbed and suffering and these were not emotions a small boy could understand. "I do not like that you have forgotten how to smile," he had said seriously.
Along the winding path the petals lie;
To greet the setting sun, they drift up from the ground.
Nico knelt down/ rose up/ held a poppy petal in his hand. She cannot see anything in its velvety depths but red for the colour of blood. He says, "Flowers die like we do, but this petal has fallen and it is not dead yet. Smile today, for who knows what tomorrow will bring and father loved you so much he wanted you to always get some joy out of life."
(And with this knowledge he turns and walks away and into the Church, leaving me in my numb and silent grief. Can I start to live again? After George can I live again?)
Heartbroken, I cannot bear to sweep the petals away;
From my eyes, spring soon disappears.
She does not want to put away the mourning robes. She does not want to stop wearing blue for an unseen ocean of tears just yet. She does not want to put these memories away when she can still live in them and feel from them and punish herself in them.
It doesn't matter that Harry still loves and she loves in return. There is too little time and yet all of time and space is watching and self torture gives some definition to events that she doesn't think Harry understands.
I pine with passing, heart's desire lost forever;
(The death of George is the death of love. At least for now when I fear too much trying to pick up broken pieces and starting again.)
Nothing is left but a robe stained with tears.
(Tears are not just for George or for Harry or for me. They are for those who I have known who have died and whose lives have been torn apart. Danny and Jo and Fiona and Adam; can you see me now and do you like what I have become? Oh, oh Danny... you were always there for me, but, why are you not here now?)
Contemplation is the new life code. The Chinese poets agree.
(But do you Danny? Do you believe in shields and armour and enforced solitude? If you were here what would you be saying to me now?)
There are no Heaven sent answers. She walks into the Church and faces the sympathetic hordes. There is a storybook in her head. Summer is dying, dying, Summer is over and gone, Summer is gone, Summer is dying, dying. Summer is dead, dying, dead. Summer is over and out.
For her, for now, it is. The only fact that has permanency in a cruel and confusing universe is this. And that's all anyone else needs to know.
Sorry for the downer that this drabble is but it's kind of necessary for the rest of the drabbles. Hope someone likes this? Feel free to suggest poems for future drabble.