On a cold day in autumn, two years ago, Vairë realized her mother had left her behind.
On a warm day in summer, only a few months ago, Vairë realized her husband had left her too.
And now, on this cold day in winter, Vairë realized for the last time that her sister had left her in triplicate.
It continued two years of a constant trend, that Vairë was the one to stay. Everyone else left her eventually. Her mother, her husband, her sister, each left for better pastures while Vairë stayed, watching the horizon. Dove woman, sea-hawk man, and now her cloud water sister. They came, they lied with sweet words, and they left her.
You said you wanted to know me, my children. She stared into the darkness of Lótë’s den in the forest that would have been her home, in another world, in another life. She did not speak to the woman, did not utter her name, she spoke to the most recent leaving. Bitter tears carved down her muzzle, dripping down from her lashes.
Were you lying to me? To them? I wanted to know your children. I wanted you to know mine. Were your wants more important? Enough that Sedna gave you everything and you still took the alternate path? Did I do you so wrong as to leave with no word? The darkness did not speak back. Nothing did. The woods were eerily silent, in the frosty light of the moon. Her breath came in slow clouds, not betraying the rage she felt. The sorrow. The everything.
Why does everyone leave? She begged for anything to answer her.
They always leave, in one way or another. It is in their nature. Something seemed to whisper back. Perhaps a visiting spirit, perhaps her own conscious. It didn’t matter.
Vairë abruptly stood.
Moondoe stomped a front foot like it was a hoof.
Then, where the village sat.
Then, back to the dark den.
I’m ready. She told the moon.
Ready to be someone who stays. A deep breath.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
The statement settled there, in her chest.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
Bearing the burden, the brunt of everything that had harmed her mother, to be the one who stayed.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
On a warm day in summer, only a few months ago, Vairë realized her husband had left her too.
And now, on this cold day in winter, Vairë realized for the last time that her sister had left her in triplicate.
It continued two years of a constant trend, that Vairë was the one to stay. Everyone else left her eventually. Her mother, her husband, her sister, each left for better pastures while Vairë stayed, watching the horizon. Dove woman, sea-hawk man, and now her cloud water sister. They came, they lied with sweet words, and they left her.
You said you wanted to know me, my children. She stared into the darkness of Lótë’s den in the forest that would have been her home, in another world, in another life. She did not speak to the woman, did not utter her name, she spoke to the most recent leaving. Bitter tears carved down her muzzle, dripping down from her lashes.
Were you lying to me? To them? I wanted to know your children. I wanted you to know mine. Were your wants more important? Enough that Sedna gave you everything and you still took the alternate path? Did I do you so wrong as to leave with no word? The darkness did not speak back. Nothing did. The woods were eerily silent, in the frosty light of the moon. Her breath came in slow clouds, not betraying the rage she felt. The sorrow. The everything.
Why does everyone leave? She begged for anything to answer her.
They always leave, in one way or another. It is in their nature. Something seemed to whisper back. Perhaps a visiting spirit, perhaps her own conscious. It didn’t matter.
Vairë abruptly stood.
Perhaps I’m sick of the leaving.She spoke to the silent air, her quiet voice breaking the chilled silence.
Moondoe stomped a front foot like it was a hoof.
I am the one who stays. I will be.She looked up at the peak above her head, the high point of the spine.
Then, where the village sat.
Then, back to the dark den.
I won’t leave. Not like the dove, the sea-hawk, or the cloud-water.The doe turned on a heel.
I’m ready. She told the moon.
Ready to be someone who stays. A deep breath.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
The statement settled there, in her chest.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
Bearing the burden, the brunt of everything that had harmed her mother, to be the one who stayed.
I am ready to be moonwoman.
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I can’t save us, my atlantis - by Vairë - January 18, 2024, 07:42 AM