Post by Celisle nó Valerian (I) on Aug 9, 2007 2:27:04 GMT -5
If you were to ask if my childhood was happy I couldn’t have told you yes or no. Indeed, I wouldn’t really know what to tell you, having little to recall that could tell me either way. I don’t remember the happy times of my childhood very well; only the feelings and emotions that remain after grief and loss and pain have carved a deep scar upon my heart.
I remember being told that my mother lived and loved to dance and that even though my father wasn’t very good at it he indulged her every wish to fly, wrapping his hands around her lithe frame and lifting her high in the air to sail amongst the clouds of her dreams.
I also remember often of being told that they were the two most beautiful people to watch when it came to the art and expression of love, and it always made me smile to hear it.
I never knew my mother so I always wanted to know everything about her: what her favorite flower was; her favorite song, her favorite dress; I wanted to know what color her hair was, and her eyes, and what her smile looked like, what perfume she always wore. And over and over my father would tell me, always patient and kind, answering my endless questions with a smile and a laugh and a story to make me happy.
But not every memory of my father is happy; one memory in particular is that of him sitting across from me by the fire, a look of sweet sorrow in his distant gaze. And I remember what I had asked him about that made him look so sad. I had asked about my mother…
It was a long winters’ night a week before the longest night of the year, the eve of my seventh birthday and it was then that I asked him if she was beautiful. And for once he didn’t laugh, his gaze lingering on the fire that burned in the hearth, his eyes sorrowful even though he smiled.
After a moment he answered, ‘Yes, she was, but in her own way. It was in the way she moved, in every step of her dance; it was her smile, her laughter, and her tears. It was in the way she loved, and because I loved her.’ And he left it at that.
At the time I didn’t really understand what he said that night, but when I remember the look on his face now I know that he loved her very much and missed her, too. That night, the anniversary of my birth, was also the anniversary of the day that he lost her: Two months later I lost him.
Although I can’t really say that my childhood was happy I can tell you this: Happiness and love was, for me, like a fleeting dream; one that leaves you forever trying to remember something long forgotten. And, even as sad as it seems, it always leaves you longing for more.
I remember being told that my mother lived and loved to dance and that even though my father wasn’t very good at it he indulged her every wish to fly, wrapping his hands around her lithe frame and lifting her high in the air to sail amongst the clouds of her dreams.
I also remember often of being told that they were the two most beautiful people to watch when it came to the art and expression of love, and it always made me smile to hear it.
I never knew my mother so I always wanted to know everything about her: what her favorite flower was; her favorite song, her favorite dress; I wanted to know what color her hair was, and her eyes, and what her smile looked like, what perfume she always wore. And over and over my father would tell me, always patient and kind, answering my endless questions with a smile and a laugh and a story to make me happy.
But not every memory of my father is happy; one memory in particular is that of him sitting across from me by the fire, a look of sweet sorrow in his distant gaze. And I remember what I had asked him about that made him look so sad. I had asked about my mother…
It was a long winters’ night a week before the longest night of the year, the eve of my seventh birthday and it was then that I asked him if she was beautiful. And for once he didn’t laugh, his gaze lingering on the fire that burned in the hearth, his eyes sorrowful even though he smiled.
After a moment he answered, ‘Yes, she was, but in her own way. It was in the way she moved, in every step of her dance; it was her smile, her laughter, and her tears. It was in the way she loved, and because I loved her.’ And he left it at that.
At the time I didn’t really understand what he said that night, but when I remember the look on his face now I know that he loved her very much and missed her, too. That night, the anniversary of my birth, was also the anniversary of the day that he lost her: Two months later I lost him.
Although I can’t really say that my childhood was happy I can tell you this: Happiness and love was, for me, like a fleeting dream; one that leaves you forever trying to remember something long forgotten. And, even as sad as it seems, it always leaves you longing for more.