Ashen Pages

The palm trees sway this way and that, breathing in the salty air. There is a young child in a small playground that sits on the swing set waiting to be pushed. Her mother comes and her face lights up immediately, yearning for connection. She approaches, solemnly, her hands reaching outward. With a gentle push, she is in mid-air. There is laughter and it sounds like a gentle song, a melody that can only be made in a moment such as this. The breeze is heavy and the clouds are turning, opening to reveal sunlight. As daylight sparks, the sun touches the child’s face ever so slightly. They are unison, the mother and child, a dance of push and pull. She squeals with joy and begs for a second to breathe. The mother slows the swing down until it comes to a halt. The child looks up and they lock eyes. She remembers then, the yesterdays and tomorrow’s that have not been yet. They will come, she knows, except she only knows deep inside her subconscious – a threshold that has not been broken. An eremition presides inside of her, the desire to fade away in solitude. The turf on the playground feels rough on her toes, her sandals kicked off to the side, giving her the freedom to feel the farce. The child turns to the mother and there is silence. Her sister, who is just a few years younger, topples over the turf and giggles loudly. The mother reaches for her hand and pulls them into a semi circle. They surround each other, basking in the sun. The playground holds only their hearts, waving away the rain that seems to threaten the clouds. They hold each other closely, forgetting the real world for just that moment. The sky was not blue or turquoise or lapis, it was cerulean. In all its glory, heaven descended with open arms. If only they had accepted to stay there forever, they could have made it home.