[twwm] danse: change - polaris

The next room of this eternally silent place laid silent and flooded, filled with cracked pillars that floated their way around the room. An empty balustrade floated above everything else, dripping water from a small stream down its sides. I looked around more, and the walls - though almost drowned and choked in ivy - were still clearly that sweet cherry wood, dark and worn.

I close my eyes, and while no sounds passes, it feels as if an exhale does. I am comfortable; I am safe. The horsehair bow playing my soul has settled into a saccharine melody; the beginnings of Mozart. I step further into the room, winding my way around pillars anchored into the ground, pools of still still water sitting at their bases. Light is coming from above, and somewhere I imagine that I can hear other esks, singing in the treetops while their light dapples down.

I pass my reflection many times in the puddles of water as I explore - this room goes on for a long time. I finally find a corner where the light is less, but I can still see the white mask of my face, purple eyes taking myself in. Whiskers twitch on my muzzle without a mouth, and I begin to melt away into the background.

The song I've been hearing has changed, sped up. I recognize it as it fills my body, reflecting my trembles in the water. It's a popular song from my before, and it plays back in the mirror pool before me.

Two women dance, skipping around in a circle, their hands and feet a blur. Tens of other couples are around them, all doing the same dance. The music changes, and they trade partners, clasping hands in a slow waltz that speeds up, throwing person to person throughout its course.

I am entranced - I remember this night, the warmth of the summer and the heat of the salted ocean, even though the pool of water distorts it. It melts like my face had done, and I am watching two women - myself and my wife - shopping.

We laugh, she laughs, and it strikes a chord, and I finally remember her name. I have changed and her name is Skiá. I say it, in my discordant, aching voice, I say it. "Skiá, Skiá, Skiá!" That is her name, that is my wife, and I watch the rest of the scene, crying again. My tears play the scene too.

Skiá holds my hand and with the other, picks out tomatoes and onions, garlic and rye. She was planning to make a soup, I remember that. She always sang when she cooked, simple little melodies I'd never heard before. We had an old cast-iron pot that she had brought home when we had spent a year in each other’s company. Her hands were so small compared to mine, and my form feels more ephemeral than ever before. I have spent my days and hours forgetting her and searching for her in equal measure, my Skiá.

I left her behind when I passed in my rocking chair, so steadfast on the hope of seeing her again that I didn’t consider I wouldn’t. I held onto the hope like wheat stalks with a grip that turned me white-knuckled and sad. I have given up everything - watching the scene where I could’ve had anything - and the realization hits me harder than I thought it would’ve.

My transformation caused me to ever give up on finding someone to love again, someone who would love me like Skiá had. I searched for her, when I knew deep down I would never find her again. The women in the scene walk together through the market as the sun falls down, and small clouds gather in the sky. Their arms are full of groceries, their hearts full of love.

I watch with a lighter heart as they walk into the sunset, back to the little cottage I know waits for them over the hills, through forests that will lead them back to a comfort I will never get to know again. It ends, and I look away from the pool, back to the ivy and ferns floating along the walls of this Conservatory room. I will never know Skiá again. I will never have my life before back. These are facts I have known since I died - and that cold, bruising moonlight fell on me like a calling to another world. This knowledge used to make me melancholic, horribly down-trodded. I saw the world as nothing but a shell to house my depression, and I filled everything around me with it.

The walls watch me knowingly, and I realize the change to myself is larger than I thought it would be. These things, the parts and locks and chains of my past, are no longer holding me down. I will never have these things again, but that does not mean they have to haunt me anymore. That does not mean these things have to weigh me down and make me suffer. I can live a new life without forgetting Skiá, and without letting go of the happy life I lived before.

I will form something new, I decide. Surround myself with others I love, and love those around me. This will be my change.