my answers. I do not rock anymore that day and still my body shakes. This is not my way.
As the sun breaks over the horizon, I step into the purple-golden light to where the lionesses have stood sentry all night. The chill of my rocker seeps through the red cloak that wraps around me. Mist swirls across the ground and I feel as though I am high amongst the clouds. It has been days since the man with the ancient eyes came and went. Two sunrises of tingling dread, wondering if he was going to reappear. Three sunsets of sinking relief when the day ended without me seeing another person. Three nights of restless sleep filled with smiling serpents and willful women. I am beginning to think I imagined him. That he is( was?) just a phantasm. I relax as the sun climbs higher, hotter. Summer looms, the glory of Spring has almost passed. Even in the heat of the day, I sit in my cape. Waiting. Rocking. Everything is silent except the creaking of my chair. Back and forth. Back and forth. Living. Dying. I blink and he is standing in front of me again. I swear to you that I did not see him approach. I had closed my eyes but for a heartbeat and he returned, his grin full of the brightest stars and the blackest night. I do not hesitate to speak this time.“ What do you want with me?”“ I want to help you.” His voice is resolute, but tinged with something else that I can’ t decipher.“ I have no need of your help.” I help others. Help them to find their way, to find whatever peace they need in that moment. I am the Helper, not the Helpless.“ And, again, you are a liar.” There is ice in my veins, colder than before.“ No, I speak the truth.” Did my voice waver?“ For others, perhaps. Not for yourself.” A laugh, little more than a bitter hiss, escapes me.“ And what do you think is my truth?”“ Sadness.” His eyes seem to burn into my very core, but cannot melt the ice that has grown there.“ You think that I am sad?” I somehow manage to keep rocking. Back and forth. Creaking wood and my pounding heart. Back and forth.“ You have never known love.” I shake my head.“ This is not true. I have known great joy.”“ I said nothing about joy. I said you have not known love.”“ You cannot feel joy without love.” He shrugs.“ A little bit, perhaps. Love of the most basic sort. But love and joy are not the same.”“ I think you are wrong.” I am sure of it.“ You cannot have joy without love and so it follows that you must also have joy in order to love.” His frown is worse than his smile, no light at all, only dark ooze.“ Ask any grieving parent. They still love the child who has gone from this world, but I doubt you could say that they feel joy.”“ Yes, they would. Joy that the child had lived, however briefly.”“ And what do you think these parents would ask you?” We both know the answer to his question. They would ask:“ Why did this happen?” And I would say:
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