.:Bright Morning Stars:. [Skylar]
Jan 8, 2013 23:50:57 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 8, 2013 23:50:57 GMT -5
Itzal Usoa
Wouldn't it be nice
If I could melt myself like ice
Or outrun my skin
And just be pure wind?
How long has it been? Two, three years since you disappeared into the fog, without a trace? I like to think that when the sun comes out from behind the clouds, and the fog reflects in the light—you know the way that it creeps along the hills, and down into the lowlands like porridge spilling over the edge of a bowl? I like to believe that you’ll emerge from it, one day, as if nothing had ever happened. You’d say that you’d been working on the rig, and there’d been a terrible explosion, but you’d been blown clear into the water. You’d have had a wonderful adventure out in the country, being patched together by filthy wanderers and forced to work for them repairing their trinkets and bobs. But you’d escape, and come back to us—through the fog you’d emerge, sweat dripping and dirt over your face, but no worse for wear.
This morning is like all the rest, with the rising of the sun and the fog rolling down through valley. There’s no trace of anyone along the path. The birds call out their morning songs, and I can hear the creak of the neighbor’s shutters in the distant. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, rising from bed to throw a log onto the fire and set about boiling water for the bath. My mother will rise soon to make the few eggs we have left, and my sister will hum from her place at the table. She’ll sit weaving another piece of fabric for the market, this time hoping to sell for enough to buy a new pair of winter boots. She’ll be old enough this spring to start learning more difficult things—of metalworks and pressures needed taking down in the rigs—but for now she enjoys her little projects with the passion of a child. I hope it never leaves her, but already I can see my mother’s patient practicality when she talks about trading for enough meat or buttoning up my coat to keep out the cold.
I set down the bucket of warm water near the basin and strip out of my clothes. A draft sets in from the window, and I give a shiver. I’ll need to tar up the sides of the house and plug the holes in the windows. A bag chill could get any one of us sick, and a doctor’s bill is the last thing we need. I shake off the thought as I dip a sponge into the water. Rubbing across my body I wonder if I too am getting older—thinking of the practical versus the dreams I still have. I scrub away yesterday’s dirt and think of spending the afternoon in the trees listening to the sounds of crickets as dusk descended. If for only a few hours, the whole world hummed. There was no need to think of my family, of school, of the capitol, of the approaching reaping. All of it dissipated in the concerto of voices—crickets, robins, creaking trees, whistling wind—all the while I tried to think of my own future, and what I wanted.
It’s easy enough to do what’s necessary. I place the sponge back into the bucket and start splashing water onto my skin. For those of us that have been in the background for some time, pleasure tends to come from what happens to others rather than to oneself. I guess it could be why the games are still so popular, as much as a spectacle as they are. For the briefest of moments, we can feel pride in our district, and think that maybe we are winners along with them. And we imagine what it would be like to have all the wealth and power of a capitolite: a whole world unfolding at our feet, despite the cost. There would be the pain and cost of it all—but what about being able to be who you wanted? Real, running water and hot meals all the time. Or how about the chance to make others proud, to be revered and famous for the rest of one’s life? It seemed amazing enough as a child, when I’d been small enough only to understand that the one standing at the end would be forever changed.
But now it’s not so simple. I move to get a towel, and wipe down the rest of my body. I put on an undershirt, and then another, a hoodie, underpants, pants, socks, wool socks, and shoes. It’s that I can see what mortality is—that death is the price for failure. And of all the things that would scare me most, it would be death. Readily admitted, I can only imagine the terror of what it must feel like—to know you aren’t going to live much longer. I stop at the front door, giving one last look at the kitchen. There’s still no signs of life, and I know there’s work to be done. My mother must have decided to sleep in—a gift I give her today, knowing that she’s tired from the long hours of the week. I’ll stoke the fire, gather the wood, go to the market, and bring back what’s needed for dinner.
My mind wanders as I set out for town, and I pause from time to time to stare up at the limbs of trees along the path. There are fewer birds now that it’s winter, so the faintest flash of red or a strange call stops me in my tracks. I idle just outside of town, a mile or so from the market, upon seeing a Robin high up in the branches of an oak. The wind picks up and blows my scarf back against my face. I wonder if my father is out there, in the receded fog, watching. I continue to stand with my hands in my pockets, watching the world go by. It’s a nice morning, after all.
Oh, fragile flame
Sometimes I feel the same
[/size][/justify][/blockquote][/color][/color][/font]Sometimes I feel the same
