I can still feel his warm strength as we curled together on
the couch that morning. “You know I have to go, right? It’ll only be six months. Not long. And when I get back, we’ll get married. Promise.”
I turn my head to smile up at him. “My spaceman.” He grins, and his arms
tighten around me. “I just can’t believe I got in! In my last year!’
I keep the smile on my face as best I can, until
the door closes behind him, and he’s gone.
I still dream the countdown. The numbers harsh in my ears, behind my
tightly closed eyelids. If I’m lucky, I wake before zero. I didn’t even
watch him go.
My ancestors followed the songlines, and found home. So I play. I play
a songline for him. And one day he will hear it, and hold on…and I
will lead him home.
(This is written for Angela Goff’s weekly Visual Dare prompt, my first offering, hope it works. I also wrote a longer piece, just to get the story straight in my head…I think it stands alone, and I’m going to put it here (in another post) in case anyone wants to see. ;p)
Being an empath is hard. Harder still, standing here. Those strings have played more feeling than the world is still capable of, and all I want to do is crawl into those memories, those times, good times and bad, and curl up forever, try to live in them, and not here. Not here, in the cold, waiting for the auction to start. Waiting for my heart to break.
Yeah, being an empath is hard…
(With all due credit to Spider Robinson, who taught me more about music and empathy in his books than anyone ever has in life. Also life, hope, joy, sadness, laughter, friends, family…thank you, Spider and Jeanne. Written for the Friday Fictioneers, like it says above, but it won’t let me link in a title, so here’s the link. ;p)
sighing, settling, breathing out old ghosts and new, scent of resin seeping from ancient boards, new blood from the long dead.
here is a sound…sigh of a contented waking yawn. a childs soft wail in the deep of night. the quiet squeak of a stairstep under stealthy foot.
here a feeling…the deep frightened love of a new mother. the soft velvet of a summer midnight. a shiver of window frost melting beneath tiny fingertips.
there an odor…surprise french-toast for mothers day. the sharpness of a dandelion freshly picked by clumsy but loving fingers. the dry sharp smell of laundry day.
even tastes…attic explorations, a cough of dust and cardboard. icy slice of winter morning through a quickly opened door. holiday dinners, layered one over the other in a pastiche of family.
and the sights…thin black-and-white bars of shadow on a pretty pastel wall. a trail of colorful boots, wet backpack, half inside-out jacket, across a clean kitchen floor. and a moment of sleepy fright and confusion, eyes meeting mirrored eyes across a dusky hallway.
all these and more seep and stew, melding present to future, phantoms of possibility and past. the house dreams…