Me if My Life Hadn?t Turned to Ash
Sunlight bakes my skin, coupling with the heat pouring off my body from the morning?s exertion to flush my face and cause sweat to begin its trickling journey down the nape of my neck. Fortunately, one of the few ?modern? conveniences I?ve conceded to in RhyDin is workout apparel: a sports? bra, those swooshy shorts they have in stores, and running shoes in a blue bright enough to match my hair in addition to helping small aircraft land. My attire normally keeps me cool, but the humidity in the city today is enough to have me doubting my choice of running this morning. I am therefore thankful when I find myself in the shadier lanes of the north-west community of Seaside.
The air temperature drops significantly in the tunnel of over-arching trees, but that is not why I consistently find myself taking this particular road when I am alone on my morning runs. Really, my route is just a part of some sadomasochistic ritual in which I torture myself with the sight of my former house and life: all ashes and rubble now. I don?t actually stop during my run to stare at the ruins of my house. The neighborhood is familiar, and I like to run these familiar roads. As I pass the lot that once contained my life, I glance aside but pick up my speed. It?s better to run quickly by otherwise I might just stop and never start moving again.
Today is no different. As I run up the road, I look for the tall grass of the unkempt drive; it is my signal to pick up the pace. Keep moving. Don?t slow down and look back. The grass is missing today, however, and I find my pace faltering as I approach my property. As I get closer, I see that the grass is not really missing. Instead, it is trimmed and well kept with flowers marking the border of the property and edge of the drive. I can feel my heart rate picking up even as my run slackens into a reluctant walk. I recognize the small yellow flowers that I?m drawing closer to because my daughter Devyn picked them out at the garden center herself.
I used to bring her outside almost every day so she could talk to her flowers and watch them grow. I even let her help the gardener plant them when we first brought them home. The flowers were flourishing the year my house burned down. They were sleeping under the fallen leaves and hardened ground, awaiting the eventual spring the night of the fire.
I come to a complete stop and hover over the flowers, staring at them, glaring at them because they have no right to be here. They have no right to continue growing, thriving under the bright sunlight while my daughter sleeps eternally. The flowers were gone when I came back to RhyDin. I checked. Without my daughter?s care, weeds and overgrown grass had choked them, preventing them from growing and blooming. By the time I returned, there was nothing left of those delicate little flowers.
They are mocking me now, these flowers that shouldn?t exist. In this moment, I am consumed by their existence. How did they get here? Why? Their presence here is so very wrong that I reach my hands out to start yanking them from the ground. They should not exist! Just as my fingers begin to crush the yellow petals, a child?s laughter cuts through the air. My entire body is frozen still as the laughter is repeated, my eyes closing tight as the joyous noise is followed by the familiar chatter and shouts of other children.
My children.
I look up to see what my obsession with the yellow flowers has blocked from my view: in place of the charred foundation and overgrown lot, my house stands whole and complete and my children are playing a game of tag on the front lawn. They are undoubtedly my children, although time has aged them. Amanda, more of a young adult now than a teenager, is standing on the steps yelling at my twins in exasperation as they tumble on the ground in an argument. Moradin, as tall as his older sister and well on his way to becoming a young man, stands besides her and laughs. The triplets, their long limbs and bodies having left all traces of childhood chubbiness behind, continue in their game, racing across the green grass.
These are my children. They are somehow magically, amazingly right in front of me. They are not trapped in some horrible Faerie prison, stuck forever in endless dreams because of my incompetence. They are right here, running free in the cool morning shadow of our house. They are waiting for me.
Wild and unthinking, I run towards them. This is my reality now, not the nightmare of the last two hundred years: yearning and yearning, spending every waking day trying to get them back, trying to get back to here with them and reclaim what we once had. Instead of the dread that twisted my stomach at the sight of those flowers, exhilaration and eager anticipation energize my steps. The children don?t see me, don?t notice my approach, but that?s okay because I am so close now that Oz will be within my arms in a moment. I will hold on to him, to every one of them, and never let go again.
I trip. My feet catch on something large and heavy, and the obstacle is so unexpected that I barely manage to catch myself as I crash to the ground, my exposed skin scraping roughly along bits of debris and rocks instead of the soft, cushiony grass my mind expects. I don?t even give a thought to my injuries, though, and the pain any movement causes. I have to get up. I have to get to my kids. I plant my hands into the rough ground and push myself up.
My mind is reeling even more than my body did just seconds before. The house is gone. I am lying in overgrown weeds scattered with the bits and pieces of my former life. Rising to my badly scraped knees, I see the only structure in front of me is the burnt foundation of my house. Glancing over my shoulder, I find the large piece of concrete that tripped me.
My children are nowhere to be seen.
I start to laugh. It is high-pitched and unhinged before quickly turning into a rattling sob. I shed no tears in this moment to mourn the loss of my sanity. There is no other explanation for the momentary madness that has now passed. There is nothing here before me. No house. No stone-crushed drive. No green lawn for children to run about on barefoot. No delicate yellow flowers. No children. There is only black ash that feeds the weeds that thrive here, soiling the ground and preventing future growth and renewal.
Although I am convinced that it is my own madness that has fooled me so painfully, I sit there a very long time, digging my hands into the sooty black dirt and waiting as patiently as I know how, but my children never come back.
Sunlight bakes my skin, coupling with the heat pouring off my body from the morning?s exertion to flush my face and cause sweat to begin its trickling journey down the nape of my neck. Fortunately, one of the few ?modern? conveniences I?ve conceded to in RhyDin is workout apparel: a sports? bra, those swooshy shorts they have in stores, and running shoes in a blue bright enough to match my hair in addition to helping small aircraft land. My attire normally keeps me cool, but the humidity in the city today is enough to have me doubting my choice of running this morning. I am therefore thankful when I find myself in the shadier lanes of the north-west community of Seaside.
The air temperature drops significantly in the tunnel of over-arching trees, but that is not why I consistently find myself taking this particular road when I am alone on my morning runs. Really, my route is just a part of some sadomasochistic ritual in which I torture myself with the sight of my former house and life: all ashes and rubble now. I don?t actually stop during my run to stare at the ruins of my house. The neighborhood is familiar, and I like to run these familiar roads. As I pass the lot that once contained my life, I glance aside but pick up my speed. It?s better to run quickly by otherwise I might just stop and never start moving again.
Today is no different. As I run up the road, I look for the tall grass of the unkempt drive; it is my signal to pick up the pace. Keep moving. Don?t slow down and look back. The grass is missing today, however, and I find my pace faltering as I approach my property. As I get closer, I see that the grass is not really missing. Instead, it is trimmed and well kept with flowers marking the border of the property and edge of the drive. I can feel my heart rate picking up even as my run slackens into a reluctant walk. I recognize the small yellow flowers that I?m drawing closer to because my daughter Devyn picked them out at the garden center herself.
I used to bring her outside almost every day so she could talk to her flowers and watch them grow. I even let her help the gardener plant them when we first brought them home. The flowers were flourishing the year my house burned down. They were sleeping under the fallen leaves and hardened ground, awaiting the eventual spring the night of the fire.
I come to a complete stop and hover over the flowers, staring at them, glaring at them because they have no right to be here. They have no right to continue growing, thriving under the bright sunlight while my daughter sleeps eternally. The flowers were gone when I came back to RhyDin. I checked. Without my daughter?s care, weeds and overgrown grass had choked them, preventing them from growing and blooming. By the time I returned, there was nothing left of those delicate little flowers.
They are mocking me now, these flowers that shouldn?t exist. In this moment, I am consumed by their existence. How did they get here? Why? Their presence here is so very wrong that I reach my hands out to start yanking them from the ground. They should not exist! Just as my fingers begin to crush the yellow petals, a child?s laughter cuts through the air. My entire body is frozen still as the laughter is repeated, my eyes closing tight as the joyous noise is followed by the familiar chatter and shouts of other children.
My children.
I look up to see what my obsession with the yellow flowers has blocked from my view: in place of the charred foundation and overgrown lot, my house stands whole and complete and my children are playing a game of tag on the front lawn. They are undoubtedly my children, although time has aged them. Amanda, more of a young adult now than a teenager, is standing on the steps yelling at my twins in exasperation as they tumble on the ground in an argument. Moradin, as tall as his older sister and well on his way to becoming a young man, stands besides her and laughs. The triplets, their long limbs and bodies having left all traces of childhood chubbiness behind, continue in their game, racing across the green grass.
These are my children. They are somehow magically, amazingly right in front of me. They are not trapped in some horrible Faerie prison, stuck forever in endless dreams because of my incompetence. They are right here, running free in the cool morning shadow of our house. They are waiting for me.
Wild and unthinking, I run towards them. This is my reality now, not the nightmare of the last two hundred years: yearning and yearning, spending every waking day trying to get them back, trying to get back to here with them and reclaim what we once had. Instead of the dread that twisted my stomach at the sight of those flowers, exhilaration and eager anticipation energize my steps. The children don?t see me, don?t notice my approach, but that?s okay because I am so close now that Oz will be within my arms in a moment. I will hold on to him, to every one of them, and never let go again.
I trip. My feet catch on something large and heavy, and the obstacle is so unexpected that I barely manage to catch myself as I crash to the ground, my exposed skin scraping roughly along bits of debris and rocks instead of the soft, cushiony grass my mind expects. I don?t even give a thought to my injuries, though, and the pain any movement causes. I have to get up. I have to get to my kids. I plant my hands into the rough ground and push myself up.
My mind is reeling even more than my body did just seconds before. The house is gone. I am lying in overgrown weeds scattered with the bits and pieces of my former life. Rising to my badly scraped knees, I see the only structure in front of me is the burnt foundation of my house. Glancing over my shoulder, I find the large piece of concrete that tripped me.
My children are nowhere to be seen.
I start to laugh. It is high-pitched and unhinged before quickly turning into a rattling sob. I shed no tears in this moment to mourn the loss of my sanity. There is no other explanation for the momentary madness that has now passed. There is nothing here before me. No house. No stone-crushed drive. No green lawn for children to run about on barefoot. No delicate yellow flowers. No children. There is only black ash that feeds the weeds that thrive here, soiling the ground and preventing future growth and renewal.
Although I am convinced that it is my own madness that has fooled me so painfully, I sit there a very long time, digging my hands into the sooty black dirt and waiting as patiently as I know how, but my children never come back.