The feeling that burst in my throat was a living thing, winding through my windpipe, up and down it went. It churned in my stomach, filled my lungs on its way up to my head, where I couldn’t grasp it. It had the severity and intensity like when I thought of Ganymede’s sweet face, but none of the pain. Like something swirling underneath the surface of a pool, just beyond my reach. Not intimidating or daunting necessarily, but something somehow inevitable.
I watched a hermit crab scuttle along the beach, avoiding the froth of the oncoming waves. Her path was irregular, checking behind rocks and strands of seaweed. She was looking for something, I thought. Sure enough, as she came across a conch, the crab let go of her old one and slipped into her new home. Not long after, the pale, now empty shell caught on the surf and was carried away. A silent hum drifted down the beach. I looked behind me.
“It never gets old, does it?” Erato smiled. “I just laid out some new shells this morning. I saved this one for you.” She reached into a small basket that hung across her shoulder and threw something small my way. I caught it, the skin of my fingertips relishing its smoothness. A conch the size of my thumb, shining brightly in the sun, with traces of purple and yellow so intricate they looked like they had been painted on.
“Thank you,” I said. The look she gave me, soft and sorrowful, the last of summer catching flight on a breeze. Soon Persephone would return to her husband, to take her place on the throne that looked upon the Underworld. And so her mother, Demeter, who weaves her love into every leaf and blossom, would mourn her absence for half of the year, and all the green above would wither, until her daughter’s return.
News of my outburst had traveled far and wide. Gods seek gossip as bees seek flowers, drinking their fill, to return to their hive. No doubt her sisters had told her about it. Perhaps they had even noticed the newly painted stars in the night sky, and had asked Selene how they had come to be.
She took a seat on the sand beside me and wrapped me in her arms. We sat in silence for a while.
“I can’t rid you of the pain, and maybe one day you’ll be glad that I couldn’t. You two forged something beautiful, the same way a river carves its way towards the sea. No one had taught you when or how to do it, but you did it anyway. How natural you two were, so relentless and honest. And how beautiful it was.”
The breath left my chest. It seemed like a great hurdle to draw it back in. “It’s hard for me to let those lovely words in without thinking of her. She thinks she could have me on my knees whenever she likes. I know I will always be a child to her, but there’s something I want her to know that lives outside even of Aphrodite’s design.”
© William Bradford 2024-03-19