The Boy

The boy's sudden arrival made him glad. That little bundle of joy. Always smiling, dancing, laughing. Eyes closed, oblivious to the world. It soothed his heart to see the little boy thus, softened it a little. He smiled as he realized how happy he was to see the child's happiness.

A sense of relief washed over him. All those cold days seemed gone forever. They became blurred, a distant memory. An imagination. He stopped shutting off tomorrow, instead looking it in the eye, defiantly. He could go through a lot more now, but nothing seemed like it would need going through again. His eyes shone brighter, his gaze farther, as he thought these words. He breathed in, content, while the little boy walked by his side, talking to himself, lost in his joyous thoughts.

They were on a hill, covered in grass. The hills rolled on, on all sides, with purple mountains in the distance. The sun shone low, yet full. They walked for some distance. He clutched the boy's hand, never wanting to lose this feeling.

Suddenly, the boy stopped his dancing, his bobbing head didn't move from side to side anymore. Clouds began to fill the sky, muting the Sun.

He was alarmed, he sank to his knees, and turned the boy to face him, a worried, searching look on his face. He held the boy's head in his hands, and stared questioningly into the boy's eyes. The boy didn't blink, allowing him to see the pain. Tears ran down the boy's cheeks, but the boy left them there. There was no accusation in the boy's eyes. No questions. The boy understood, and seeing this, so did he. It began to rain.

He pulled the boy towards him, embracing him. He ran a hand through the boy's hair, and three waters mixed. He began to sob, engulfed by grief. By the by, he stopped. He had begun to understand, and accept, like the boy. He smiled... and so did the boy. It was then that it hit him. His eyes were wide, his body still, as he stared at nothing. He knew what was next. The boy was calm, and looked at him, tugging his sleeves. He couldn't look at the boy, but the tugging wouldn't stop, and so he finally did. The boy's eyes were comforting. Kind. Encouraging.

He began to cry again... he bit his lip, looked away. He looked back at the boy, his face contorted in sadness, streaked with tears and rain. He breathed in, letting the air out slowly, trying to control the emotion. The boy was still calm, waiting. He looked away again. He stood up, and paced, running a hand through his hair, wondering what to do, knowing what the answer was.

It had been long since the last time.

He went back to the boy, and pressed him to his stomach. It rained hard and loud. The boy hugged him tight, eyes closed, waiting. He took out his only possession. The steel rim sent a momentary chill down the boy's spine, but the boy was instantly still again. His eyes grew hard, cold. Angry. Hateful. The anger helped him do the deed. The boy screamed, eyes shut tight in pain. The boy disappeared, not a single coloured drop was shed. He fell on his knees, head in his hands, hands in his hair, clothes stuck to his body. His senses were numbed. A deep groan rumbled inside him, and rushed to his throat. As it escaped his lips he raised his head, the hands still clutching his hair, and the cry went up to the sky.

He woke up in the same place the next day. The day was cold and dry, dimly lit. Like his eyes.

"The intent of the lyricist, obviously, was to so coarsen the feelings of males who sang the song that the singers could never believe again what most of us believed with all our hearts back then: that women were more spiritual, more sacred than men.
... I have loved only four women in my life... Let it be said now, though, that all four seemed more virtuous, braver about life and closer to the secrets of the universe than I could ever be."

- In 'Jailbird', by Kurt Vonnegut

It weaves in and out of the flower bed. Sometimes in the sun, sometimes in the shadow. It flies swiftly, buzzing in an instant from one flower to the next, slowing down in no time. It hovers for a second, it's dark eyes impervious, seemingly brooding. It moves on.

After zig-zagging through the bed for a few minutes, it stops in front of a flower, and seems to approve. It swoops down towards it, and just before it appears it would crash into the flower, it stops, millimetres above it.

It slows its flapping, it's legs reach for the flower. With one final downward flap of its wings, it touches down on a petal. It's legs bend, wings droop and head bows. If it had eyelids, they would have been closed. Instead, it refuses to see. Because in that one instant, the weight of the universe came crashing down on it. A life dedicated to obeying nature and survival. A tired life. It resumes seeing, head bent, and for a moment it looks at the world, a defiant stare, and dares to dream. A new world reflected on its compound eye.

The moment passes. It lifts it's head, and begins its work, a mere insect, caught in the web of life.

Reddish petals gently brush my face,
Leaving marks, forever in place.

For several years, I've been taught that Life is a test of our faith in God/Religion.
Sometimes I wonder, maybe God/Religion is a test of our faith in Life.