welkin
“And again and again swift oblivion, the embezzler of knowledge and the enemy of memory, shakes out of the mind, in the course of time, even what we knew.”
Listen to the Wind.
Rust had formed on the long metal spear. It was a dark, brassy orange and rough to the touch. Her hand was wrapped around the end, poking out from her left shoulder. The spear was perhaps eight feet in length and had lodged itself about midway on either end. Halfway between the front and back with her heart in the middle.
Is pain so concentrated that it aligns midpoint between what you hope for and what you must release?
The girl sat still and upright to avoid further disruption. She was perspiring in the cold room. Her left side was numb and her palm presented upward to catch the wind. Her pants were green and tight, and the girl could feel the back of her palm hot against her thigh.
Those with her had seated themselves on meditation cushions and wrapped their torsos in scarves and blankets. A silk scarf lay at the girl's feet. It had been presented to her by a man in a black turtleneck. She'd declined the present; he'd left it for her anyway.
'You never know when it will rain,' the man said before walking away.
The girl left the silk where he'd placed it as they closed their eyes and went into the meditation.
It was the same vision each time. The expansive meadow with yellow and green grasses waving in the breeze. The girl stood in the center, alone, and looked upwards at the craggy grey mountains looming ahead. The sky was low and heavy; clouds had concealed the sunshine, yet the girl felt heat in her body.
Silence focused the girl's mind on the vision. Every blade of grass and stone she felt beneath her bare feet. She held her arms out to look at her body and witnessed her skin glow a little brighter with each inhale. Taking in the energy she sparkled, exhaling, she dimmed.
Like a firefly, how much lightness she contained depended upon how much oxygen she could take in.
The spaciousness she created within was broken by the sound of the blade whizzing through the air. Like most things in her life, the girl felt it before she saw it.
The girl did not gasp this time; she was learning to become more soft and silent with each repetitive rupture. The contact still took her off balance and she fell to her knees, hands rooting into the earth. She spat blood into the dirt and felt the end of the spear pressing into the ground. Its tip entered at her clavicle and pushed through the muscle and bone. Clenching her teeth, she bit back the pain she felt exploding in her chest. Her left arm was numb at her side, and with her right hand, she grabbed the end of the spear. The weight of it was agonizing.
She felt her face hot and wet from her tears and stilled her sobs by breathing deeper and deeper into the hurt. Her heart shuddered. Her fingers twitched. She was hot and cold, soft and hard, broken and alive all at once!
Her eyes were open to see the field, and the girl looked out for the figure who threw the spear. Her lashes were wet and the landscape was blurry. Taking her hand from the spear, she moved to wipe her face and felt the wetness spreading to her shoulders and torso.
It was raining.
The recognition brought her back to the small room and the scarf at her feet. She used her right hand to pick it up and lightly touched it to her cheeks to catch the tears.
As she absorbed the teardrops with the silk, she felt the man watching her.
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