Every single human culture is designed around a complicated network of myths that have developed over the eons through an evolutionary process in which the myths often seem to take on a life of their own, much like genes. Cultural myths control human personal behavior in a myriad different ways ranging from toilet and feeding habits to civic duties. It would be an extraordinarily rare event for any child to grow up without collecting a set of mythical beliefs which he or she will accept throughout his or her lifetime as eternal truths.
_____________________________________________________________________
As gently as he possibly could, he lay his head down on my lap, allowing his hands to fall into a careless criss-cross before me. I turned my gaze from the window to where I imagined his eyes would be... but couldn't feel them there. I listened to his breathing. It was heavier than usual; the intervals, a fraction of a second longer. Palms upturned, I stroked his forehead with folded fingers. That always relaxed him.
I knew better than to ask him what was bothering him. He liked moving at his own pace, opening him self up at his own time. "I think my sinuses are acting up," he tried. "Mm-hmm." A head cold, I told him. "Must be from last night."
"Must be," he said. -- With his head held in my hands, I applied a gradual pressure on the small space between his brows, working my way outwards, to his temples where I kept my calloused fingers in a circular motion.
"But It Isn't." I told him in a voice so stern, I was ashamed to use it on him.
I felt his chin release the weak flesh in my thigh as he slightly lifted his head. I spread my fingers and ran them through his head 'till my palms nested on either side of his skull; I curled my fingers and tugged at his hair. He laid his head back down.
"You don't know that," he spat at me.
"No, but you do." I tugged a bit harder and heard him give off a modest moan.
"Last night was too stale. It couldn't have held any dew in suspension... at all."
"Sometimes, I wish I was more like you." He said in an apologetic tone.
"Ah, child. Everybody always says that but nobody ever really means it." Then, a chuckle. "I told you, I'm going crazy. Any time now and you'll be ordering the loon police on me!"
"You ARE crazy!" He almost shouted. "We won't ever let that happen, Grams. at least I won't."
"That's sweet, Love." -- "Give it a couple of years."
"GRAMS!"
We both laughed. And when I realized that his breathing has lightened a bit, I reached down to give him a peck on his hairline, and catch a whiff of his hair. It gave off the trace of a sleepless night.
"What is it, really, dear?" I whispered in his ear.
"I never should've let her in," He confided to me. "I ought not to have listened to her." He continued, shaking his head.
"One never ought to listen to flowers. One should simply look at them and breathe in their fragrance. Mine perfumed my whole planet... but i didn't know how to take pleasure in all her grace. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."
And he continued his confidences:
"The fact is that, I did not know how to understand anything! I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her... I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her..."
"Stop." I said, grabbing him by his arms. I felt his eyes widen in surprise. "I can hear it in your voice, you're letting it disrupt your peace."
He looked up at me as if in question, What?
"Regret. You do not recognize it because It isn't of you. You were always taught to see the sweetness in things, not the bitterness."
I held his face in my cupped hands and brought mine to his eyes. "You, my beloved, are a butterfly. Meant to fly, not hover... and she, she is blessed among flowers for you held her in your cradle where she ripened her fruit that she now offers the world. There are meadows of infinite possibility that have been laid before you. Meadows for you to nurture the greatness that flow in your blood. Creatures of beauty such as your self, Love, were not meant to be caught in a jar... or else you die, and with your death, you leave lips parched, without having drank of your absinthe."
"I love you, Grams," He said in a weak voice. "but only you see me the way that you do."
"No, Love. Only you don't." I told him, while combing my fingers through his hair.
He nestled his face into my lap, sobbing. "Sshh..." I told him. "Rest your heart, now. The storm has passed. Your flight awaits."
No comments:
Post a Comment