One more failed attempt. This is what I hate most, sitting in the dark, unweaving my work. The frustration chafes my fingers. Raw red burns across the tips mark my futility. I don't want to be so weak as to cry, but the tears I've held back blind me to both what I've failed to do and what I'm failing to undo.
Even my sigh sounds timid in the dark. After all this time, pain, work and study, I still have so far to go. It seems an impossible distance without her guiding hand, but Mistress has other demands on her time and gift. I was supposed to be a good apprentice. Now I feel useless.
She is away, somewhere, tracing ripples across the thousand pools of fate, or weaving the tapestry of stars to sing what she has already seen. Moving the wind and rain, she is out there, forcing the tides of providence, and I am here. Foolish in the dark, trying desperately to breathe the fire of life into this tiny corner of the universe. I am desperately gripping this small place, as if I could be strong enough to keep the color in the landscape.
My aching frustration is trying to break my bones, no matter how much I know she had to leave, or that she'll come home soon. I need her now. My eyes overflow and I buckle, alone in the dark. How could I ever be strong enough? My unworthiness is trying to suffocate me.
Then, quietly, the air shudders its pleasure and I raise my face to the place where light should break the dark sky. Soft draping cloth brushes my shoulders and fingertips graze my back, more nail than skin. I know that she is worlds away from me, but hope blossoms in my chest. I can't help but whisper in the dark...
What We Found in the Divorce: Part V — Time
2 years ago