06.28.19

I cried for him the way I cried for you the night you died with your back flayed and cracked for all the tribe to see. Except he did not die like you did; he simply could not love me as I loved him. I am ashamed of the tenderness of my own heart and even more so to admit that I’d forgotten how similarly mourning and heartache feel. I think you would have laughed and called me a silly woman as you sometimes used to just to rouse my temper.

I find myself growing hard to the impulses that dare to make me soft in this life. There is too much wanting here and far, far too many regrets. I ought only to want for one thing going forward: the safety and health of my little girl.

Atiq’s little girl.

As her birthday nears, she grows more and more restless, often losing herself in a distant gaze toward even more distant waters. She tells me she wants to go home but says this while dipping her toes into the creek bordering our woods in the place I thought was home. Not even being tucked safely into her bed satisfies her desire. I ache for her. Somewhere beyond my reach is the memory of you, my love, and our son, and our friends and warrior who were once my home. Who waits for Nawfar’s return in a land too far away to imagine, I wonder? A sibling, perhaps, who shares the light of her smile and the discerning sharpness of her gaze? I know I should want to solve this mystery for her and help her find her peace, but I have grown as selfish as I am foolish in my wanting to keep her for just a little while longer.

Perhaps that is why it was so easy for me to give Atiq a space within our home, too. Of course he is one of my dearest friends, a better father than I ever knew was possible, traumatized and hunted and in need of shelter. But I also see the way they look at one another as if home exists within the space between them. Under my roof, maybe, I will glean a bit of the magic between them until they are ready to move on together. To return to their own home.

For now, we rest away from the dangers of the beast hunting Atiq. A beast we were unfortunate to meet on our journey to the ranch, in that space between worlds. Esbjorn, I tasted its ash within my lungs, felt its fire in my very bones. The smell in that place still lingers on the back of my tongue like a bitter spice hardly meant for consumption. Atiq carries the memory guiltily, but I am glad to have been given the opportunity to see and feel even a little of what he suffered all those months away. I still do not understand it, but now, at least, he is not alone.

The forest is still these days. Even the bleating of newborn fawns is a rare intrusion upon the silence that consumes us. I am both relieved and disturbed by it. Love one warmed my blood and made the stillness almost sweet. There is something distant yet familiar coursing through me in its place. Only when I am drenched with sweat and hurting after a long day’s work do I feel relief.