01-17-2020, 09:42 PM
She had not meant to wander far.
But then, she never did.
And it was impossible to gauge just how far she’d traveled when she was no longer certain of what place she should call home. If there had ever been such a place. Sometimes she thinks that she must have been picked out of the sky, pressed into the soft folds of her mother’s belly. And there, she had sprouted from all that stardust and she’d burned her way out of the womb too early and her mother had not known how to care for a something that could not be cared for.
Leonora understands now.
She understands that it is no one’s fault.
Long has she wandered. And she has grown, too. And she has learned. She has learned that she cannot touch without destroying and this is an ache that she does not yet know how to navigate. Because she is kind, Leonora, but she cannot express it except for with breathless wonder and temperate smiles. She has shrieked with delight, reveled in unfettered happiness, but has always been careful not to touch lest her companion come away burned.
There, at dusk, she emits a soft glow. It will intensify as night takes hold, it will remind her that she was meant for the sky. As if she could forget. She sees him there, at the edge of the forest, and sucks in a sharp breath. And then, softly, she makes her way toward him, drawn to him by the constellations mapped out down the length of his neck.
She blinks those brilliant eyes, diamonds in the sea of stars scattered across her face, and smiles. “Hi,” she says, breathless, “my name is Leonora.” Because mother may not have been able to kiss her head or offer her anything by way of sustenance (not with the way the child’s mouth burned her each time she tried to drink), but she instilled in her a fine sense of manners and politeness. She plunges onward, a thin, taut line of excitement wrapped tight around her words when she asks, “are you from the stars, too?”
But then, she never did.
And it was impossible to gauge just how far she’d traveled when she was no longer certain of what place she should call home. If there had ever been such a place. Sometimes she thinks that she must have been picked out of the sky, pressed into the soft folds of her mother’s belly. And there, she had sprouted from all that stardust and she’d burned her way out of the womb too early and her mother had not known how to care for a something that could not be cared for.
Leonora understands now.
She understands that it is no one’s fault.
Long has she wandered. And she has grown, too. And she has learned. She has learned that she cannot touch without destroying and this is an ache that she does not yet know how to navigate. Because she is kind, Leonora, but she cannot express it except for with breathless wonder and temperate smiles. She has shrieked with delight, reveled in unfettered happiness, but has always been careful not to touch lest her companion come away burned.
There, at dusk, she emits a soft glow. It will intensify as night takes hold, it will remind her that she was meant for the sky. As if she could forget. She sees him there, at the edge of the forest, and sucks in a sharp breath. And then, softly, she makes her way toward him, drawn to him by the constellations mapped out down the length of his neck.
She blinks those brilliant eyes, diamonds in the sea of stars scattered across her face, and smiles. “Hi,” she says, breathless, “my name is Leonora.” Because mother may not have been able to kiss her head or offer her anything by way of sustenance (not with the way the child’s mouth burned her each time she tried to drink), but she instilled in her a fine sense of manners and politeness. She plunges onward, a thin, taut line of excitement wrapped tight around her words when she asks, “are you from the stars, too?”
leonora