{"id":172,"date":"2010-09-01T00:03:00","date_gmt":"2010-09-01T00:03:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/?p=172"},"modified":"2022-07-10T00:18:26","modified_gmt":"2022-07-10T00:18:26","slug":"172","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/2010\/09\/01\/172\/","title":{"rendered":"Home"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

He still remembers the days when he called loneliness\u00a0peace<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cherry-red pond side days, dull and flat like the stones he so often tossed at the water to smash the clouds below, petals spread like spilt blood on the banks. Pale cream dawn days, like the light that sat on the gliding swans\u2019 wings, as they watched, serenely, the stones spin by. He used to play among the children, he should have been one of them. But no one ever taught him stone-tossing; he learnt the art by sight. So it perennially puzzled him, and always would, as to why his stones never skipped like theirs did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes he dozed in the waterside warmth, smiling at passing peddlars and pretending they didn\u2019t look away\u2014and when parents whispered amongst themselves about why he wasn\u2019t at school, he\u2019d mistake their talk for greetings and wave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wasn\u2019t extraordinary: a child without wings, a child of hair the colour of the light he\u2019d never known. They<\/em> had always held him in the contempt entailed by the extraordinariness they imagined upon him\u2014on his brow, like a crown among his golden curls. Who was he, after all, besides a lazy snob\u2019s child, grown fat off the land, one who by principle did not mingle with the lower folk? Wingless peacock, they said. Thornless rosebush.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They made a game of calling him names. He laughed with them when they played it, and sometimes laughed at himself with all their scorn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then among the crimson petals, he would toss another stone to the water, and the chorus of giggles behind him would be followed by the vanishing of faces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

He remembers how he held rings at five. Then he was eight, and learning to write a diary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dear diary,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

nothing at all happened today, nothing of worth.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know why the stones won\u2019t skim.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He scrunched up his face for a better idea, for something else with which to adorn the page. Ultimately he decided to abandon the effort entirely, and slipped the book into the gap on the shelf\u2014everything in place, nothing where it shouldn\u2019t be. Diary-keeping was a practice meant to save memories, but to him it was but a chore imposed by his English tutor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The evenings in the twelfth year of his life were as all evenings had ever been. He would watch each red dusk as the street walkers passed, blind to him, homeward-bound. He would wonder why Mother with her administration<\/em> and Father with his ships<\/em> were never home for him, never homeward-bound just like everyone else. Every day, he returned to an empty house, vast and hollow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd what is home?\u201d sang his English tutor. \u201cHome is where the heart is,\u201d he said in reply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His heart wasn\u2019t there<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His heart was nowhere, actually, but he never told anyone. He had no one to tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A hundred servants waited on him, but to him he was the only one living there. Life was a ruled line, just like the paths of stones over the pond. He was singular and pristine, and he had no business trying to pry into their <\/em>lives. He had no choice, not when his nurse told him constantly to be polite and mind his manners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He kept his door locked most of the time. The lines weren\u2019t supposed to bend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Dear diary,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think I feel lonely.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

So this evening it was that came upon rosy wings, landing on the eaves of the town to wash it red. Today, he didn\u2019t feel like strolling too fast, because what was there to warrant haste? He kicked a rock off the path. There was dinner, and then there was homework, and then there was bedtime. There was nothing else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He might have noticed the rush of footsteps from behind him if he hadn\u2019t been thinking. It was only when she<\/em> called that he realised that someone followed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSnob boy!\u201d came a cry from far behind. He stumbled to a standstill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not a bit indignant at the nickname for reasons unknown even to himself, he glanced backwards\u2014and the girl barrelled into him with a straw hat in her fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou again!\u201d she exclaimed once her brilliant eyes had taken his. Briefly alarmed and slightly flustered, he took the sudden apparition in: auburn hair unruly and unwashed, face a little too dirty, clothes scrappy as urchin\u2019s rags. There was the filthy stench of sweat all about her; he almost doubled back before remembering his manners. \u201cYou\u2019re always here!\u201d she went on, pretending ignorance to his shock. \u201cWhere\u2019s your mother? Why\u2019re you always<\/em> here? Why aren\u2019t you going home?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I don\u2019t have one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, you do!\u201d She would not be turned down, stubborn kid. She was pointing at the mansion a little far away, grinning boyishly. \u201cIt\u2019s right there! I see you go there every evening.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He defended himself by folding his arms. \u201cWhat do you <\/em>know about me?\u201d he answered\u2014and she was right. He ought to go home<\/em> before more freaks attacked him like this. So he did. She said goodbye, and he ignored her, and she didn\u2019t try to chase.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Dear diary,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I met a crazy girl today.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The stones still aren\u2019t skimming.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

He had spent countless afternoons before this stone-tossing\u2014but today, only today,<\/em> had he suddenly begun to realise that it was all taking him nowhere. He bit his lip. Before this, the activity had contented him enough\u2014he had stubbornly convinced himself so. Why had it lost its charm?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somewhere nearby, a five-year-old giggled and flung her own stone to the water. It hopped, skipped, and splashed deep into the blue pool on the third impact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s fine!\u201d came her mother\u2019s cry, as she began to lament the stone\u2019s failed journey. \u201cThrow a little harder next time!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly he felt that sharp diamond of disappointment pierce him, right where he never had before. How long had he been throwing blindly and not succeeding? He glanced at the flat piece of rock in his own palm, and threw it\u2014straighter and neater than the girl\u2019s throw had been\u2014perfect<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It splashed as usual, making not so much as a bounce before it vanished in a flash of water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before he could begin to pity himself, and as he pulled himself from the bank to begin homeward, a familiar voice burst in on his thoughts like a battering ram.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He turned\u2014and grimaced. It was her<\/em> again. Same scruffy hat on scruffy head. She was dashing down the grass to the bank where he stood, crying \u201chey you\u201d with her arms flapping like an eagle\u2019s wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d he muttered when she finally stopped, gracelessly. She panted and grinned, the way she always did. He wrinkled his nose, the way he always did.\u00a0\u201cWhy are you here?\u201d came his question, as coldly as he could manage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy are you<\/em> here?\u201d she parroted the question\u2014and at this, he almost laughed. She sounds so much like me.<\/em> Her eyes wouldn\u2019t leave him, irritated as he tried to appear, and she pulled the hat off as her breath began to level. \u201cWhy are<\/em> you here? Are you going to tell me that you don\u2019t have a home again?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2026do live in a\u2014house,\u201d he finally confessed. \u201cBut it isn\u2019t my home<\/em>. Mother and Father gave me servants and toys, but really there\u2019s nothing tying me to it. Not even Mother and Father. They\u2019re never there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl pouted back. \u201cAw, you sound so lonely,\u201d she sang. He tried not to flinch when she patted his shoulder in a crude gesture of comfort. The last pat became a firm clasp. \u201cIs that why you\u2019re here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t suppose<\/em>! You should know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2014Yes. I have so many things<\/em>, but I don\u2019t have any friends.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was about then that he began to see, vaguely. He had never understood\u00a0why<\/em>\u00a0he\u2019d always felt empty despite the abundance in his house, the parents who were loaded with gold and\u00a0assets\u00a0(whatever those were), a surplus of things\u2014banquets whenever he desired, a huge room with a gilded bed, thousands of jewelled toys.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was no one there to share it all with, and that made it worthless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The girl did not let his frown drag her wildness down. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/em> she exclaimed. \u201cNo friends?<\/em> Then who am I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBeing a friend isn\u2019t as simple as that!\u201d he burst out. \u201cMy choice must be thought over; my parents need to approve; I can\u2019t just be friends <\/em>with some stranger I met on the streets\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s<\/em> why!\u201d she answered triumphantly. Friend<\/em>, her eyes shine. \u201cYou make it so hard! Almost no one would get past that<\/em>. Come; we can make it easier, can\u2019t we? I\u2019ll be your friend. And you aren\u2019t stopping me!\u201d She laughed at the sky. \u201cGood evening, friend!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sky turned orange as these words were spoken. The swans arced their necks to gaze at themselves. He had to go home, he told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She walked him halfway home that day, up till the bustling junction with the ice-cream stand, where she said\u00a0she\u00a0<\/em>had to be home too. He smiled at her, and left her behind among the houses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he turned around, he realised that she hadn\u2019t walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he realised that she had no home either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Dear diary,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I met the girl again. As always. She says that being friends isn\u2019t as hard as I think\u2014so have I been thinking wrong all my life?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I haven\u2019t learnt to skim stones yet. Is there any point in going on?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019d you learn your English?\u201d he asked, and she didn\u2019t seem alarmed that he knew her secret. Perhaps nothing could alarm her any longer, not after so many years out in a city where no one looked twice unless to murder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, I\u2026I had friends who taught me,\u201d she murmured, \u201cbut they\u2019re all gone now.\u201d His eyes grew wide. \u201cNo biggie, though. I\u2019ve had lots of friends, they all last a year or so, then go on their ways.\u201d A grin seizes her face. \u201cPeople go where the money is!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

How old was she, twelve? Thirteen? She couldn\u2019t be much younger than he. But she must have cut her toes on rocks before, cut them deep and bled bright red, when he hadn\u2019t ever dared scratch his boots.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s unfortunate,\u201d he murmured, and was surprised to find this sorrow was real. Real as the smart of rocks cutting toes. \u201cIsn\u2019t it ever tiring?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYeah, always is, some way or other.\u201d She kept grinning though. As if she saw something on the horizon that didn\u2019t exist to him. \u201cBut it all passes pretty quickly, and I\u2019m always finding new things to be happy for\u2014like dumb rich snobs by the lake!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He laughed suddenly. She was so happy, how could she be happy? Somehow, despite her bare, dirt-scraped feet and all the years written beneath her eyes, he had a feeling she knew more about\u00a0home\u00a0<\/em>than he did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When they parted ways that evening, she was reluctant, almost; her fingers hung onto her battered hat like talons, as if clinging to the sinking sun. \u201cYou\u2019ve been my friend longer than any of the others,\u201d she admitted then. \u201cUm, thanks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou are welcome.\u201d His fingers had already been dirtied by the rocks from the lakeside, so he didn\u2019t mind when she decided to shake his hand in gratitude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

He sat throwing rocks for years to come. Two rocks for every day. The surface gleamed gold every afternoon, and its colours changed with the shifting seasons, each sky to be shattered, invariably, by his failed attempts at skimming. Each piece smashed the water and descended like the last, and his throws began to grow frustrated. New year, midyear, deep in the winter when this town was only brushed by the tip of the cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was growing tired of this game.\u00a0Am I still a child,<\/em>\u00a0he asked himself now, suddenly, clutching at the newly-picked stone in his palm. So many years; he was still throwing rocks\u2014as before, as always\u2014and they were still plummeting into the pond, as if afraid of his relief, his victory. Now, he knew that this game had always been a distraction; he had never really enjoyed it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now that he was past his childish mesmerism, he turned to see the grey world behind. He saw every countenance that passed, jaded to his silent pleading. He saw how their eyes averted him as if he were a street rat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Am I still a child? Will I continue to fool myself?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A voice pushed through the paper walls of his sadness, bored and bordering on flippant. He only had a few seconds to feel his heart leap, before she came to sit beside him on the bank and swing her legs over the water, thin from something he could only guess was undernourishment. Her smiled burned less now, but it was only because her body couldn\u2019t afford her the strength for a flame. Her frame was narrower, somewhat willowy, her back hunched to cold she\u2019d suddenly begun to feel\u2014but her hair was still a mess, and her eyes were still brown and furious when she grinned. He had never noticed her becoming a little of someone else, someone the same but not quite, someone more resigned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy aren\u2019t you going home? Don\u2019t say what you did back then. It is <\/em>your home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI told you, I don\u2019t have one!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, you do! Stop lying to yourself! It\u2019s that house, right there!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her words made him angry. She was in no position to speak of such things. No position to make him feel guilty about not having the life he would\u00a0never\u00a0have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tell me about home!\u201d <\/em>he snapped straight back, much too furious for his liking. Home is where the heart is. <\/em>\u201cThat<\/em> isn\u2019t my home, alright? Everything\u2019s as it should be, and yet it\u2019s all wrong. I don\u2019t love<\/em> my home! It\u2019s just a shell, a cave. There\u2019s no one<\/em> there.\u201d He turned away, stabbed suddenly by his own words. \u201cWhat do you know about me and my life? What do<\/em> you know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A silence. She didn\u2019t look angry, but her stubbornness seemed to die a little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you <\/em>know?\u201d she answered at last, a sad echo, head bowing like a leaf on a withered stalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Guilt wrenched him in the gut. She sounds so much like me.<\/em> Growling, he swung down to snatch a flat stone up, and stood. \u201cI don\u2019t understand this!\u201d he cried. There was nothing more to be said\u2014he was tired of running in circles and finding no end. He needed to make some headway somewhere<\/em>, but what headway had he made? Eight years, and everything was still the same.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been throwing straight all this time\u2014straight as I can! Why isn\u2019t it hopping like it should? Why is it still wrong<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He flicked the pathetic little stone at the water, sending all his rage from all these years, with it. As always, as it always would\u2014it splashed into the water and sank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps because she couldn\u2019t see the anger in his eyes, or because she found his failure comedic, she laughed. He turned, trying not to glare at her but glaring all the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s because you\u2019ve been doing it\u00a0wrong!\u201d came her bewildering response, and her grin was suddenly as bold as ever. She took her own stone and stood. \u201cYou aren\u2019t supposed to throw it\u00a0straight<\/em>, that way it crashes into the water instead of glancing off on it. You\u2019re supposed to give it a\u00a0spin<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She flicked the stone out of her hand, so casually it made all these years seem like nothing. It went curving from her fingers, spinning like a top in midair and meeting the water at an almost-parallel. The water rose to meet it\u2014and off the surface glanced the stone, magically, hopping a second time, a third\u2014on and on, till it leapt onto the other bank where it thudded into the grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d he muttered. \u201cThat didn\u2019t just\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve been following your own made-up rules all your life,\u201d she answered. \u201cAnd by the way, your made-up rules are pretty silly. It’s the same reason you didn\u2019t have friends! Why don\u2019t you try yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Staring at her, waiting for a signal of approval that she quickly gave, he bent for a stone of his own. His fingers curled when he rose. With a toss that he had practiced all his life, it went soaring like a bird towards the water, but spinning. <\/em>Spinning like the sun. And it leapt, once! twice!\u2014before it splashed away, and by then his heart was bursting and his eyes stung with the tears of a decade and he wished his father had been there to see it skip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With a silly, tearful grin, he whirled to see his friend, so changed from the day they\u2019d met; she stared on back and laughed, \u201cyou\u2019re crying!\u201d because he\u2019d never cried in front of her before. And he found it didn\u2019t matter that she was seeing him so weak\u2014didn\u2019t matter if she never washed her clothes, or if her hair was a mess, while his was brushed out, his hands soaped to rawness. It didn\u2019t matter if there were scars on her shins while there was not a thread loose on his pants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Both glanced at the orange sun that gleamed across the water. He looked down at his hands, and seeing them brought some sort of rue. They were so clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She was smiling at him with bright eyes and some expectation. He understood, because he felt the same hope brimming in him too\u2014and a little reluctantly, he held out a hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019d actually expected her to be a little gentler, but she only laughed at the odd look on his face, and snatched his hand so hard he thought he felt tears coming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She walked him home again, and though he didn\u2019t want to admit it, he did like the feeling of her hand safe in his. This touch held something he had never been given the chance to know. Perhaps Mother and Father had once cradled him in their arms, in those ancient days from which he could draw no memory\u2014but the warmth was gone, and there were only shallow imprints of that love remaining.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That warmth had, for these minutes, for these years, been replaced by hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The surly figure of the house appeared a little too soon, but he accepted it. He hesitated at the gates, nevertheless, for they looked so coldly forbidding and she <\/em>was so real. Mother and Father were probably still at work, and the house was probably just as empty, as grandly meaningless as it had always been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Letting go, the girl turned to face him, and her lopsided grin was more brilliant than the sun behind her. \u201cAre you going home yet?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He saw the way she smiled at the word home<\/em>, as if she\u2019d never lost hers. Then he realised that this didn\u2019t matter either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

But his dining room was full that evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were guests and servants gathered there amidst the family\u2019s golden drapery, and a feast spread across the table for every man and woman in the house. There were streamers on the archway, homecoming banners by the doors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And at the very head of the table, enthroned like deities afar, sat Mother and Father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s late!\u201d exclaimed his father as he rose. \u201cGet yourself cleaned and seated this instant.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He wondered for five seconds whether it was a dream, because the lights seemed so bright. Then he decided he should smile whether or not it was, and he ran to do as told.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The banquet was preceded by a speech. \u201cTo a successful venture and the prosperity of the house,\u201d announced Father to the chandeliers. As it turned out, the dinner celebrated a valuable new business deal he had clinched. Mother seemed equally enthralled by the news\u2014not at the sight of their son, or at the dishes painstakingly prepared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t matter<\/em>, he insisted with the determination he\u2019d learnt from the girl by the river\u2014the girl who\u2019d lived half her life on the streets, losing friends as fast as they came. He ate and savoured the honey warmth that filled him up. This was the closest he would ever come, he knew.\u00a0It\u2019s different today. They came home. The house is full. The house isn\u2019t empty.<\/em>\u00a0It\u2019s enough.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

That night at the front door, he finally said \u201cgoodbye\u201d to the father and mother who had barely heard his voice before. Father smiled. Mother kissed his forehead and returned the goodbye, told him to take care of himself, to listen to his English tutor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want to tell you about everything that\u2019s happened,\u201d he answered, desperate for another second, as they began to turn. \u201cI learnt to skim stones! I met this girl\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“A girl,\u201d muttered Mother, glancing at Father, who glanced back. He would have defended himself, but the retort was left hanging on his tongue. They had disappeared, and with the grandest of creaks the doors swung together, leaving the entrance hall as quiet as before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

Dear diary,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I finally learnt how to skim stones today\u2014<\/em>she\u00a0taught me how. She also taught me to love what I have. It\u2019s not easy. She taught me to love my\u00a0home\u00a0just that way, emptiness and all. She taught me to call it that.<\/em>\u00a0I don\u2019t think she knows that she did.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Home isn\u2019t made up of the people inside it at any one point in time. It\u2019s the sum of events<\/em> that have transpired within its walls, the events in its history. It\u2019s made up of love that has been, the love that will be\u2014love that stays to occupy the space within which it was born.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It doesn\u2019t matter that Father and Mother weren\u2019t here yesterday, or that they won\u2019t be here tomorrow. They were here <\/em>today, and that\u2019s enough to make this place <\/em>home, to me.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

He remembers it all too well, because a thousand pages of his diary carry two-line entries about how he didn\u2019t know how to skim stones. His diary ends with the entry written on the day his parents finally visited, because that was the day his English tutor finally decided, eight years from starting, that his writing skills had grown sufficient, and that the exercise was no longer necessary. He keeps the diary though. It pleases him to remember his own sadness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He lost his interest in skimming stones quickly\u2014strange that all the fun had vanished now that he knew how to do it. He was <\/em>seventeen, after all, and the day was long overdue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The children who teased him have left already, birds from the nest. Things change, have changed, will change. They<\/em> have grown tired of their<\/em> games. The fathers who taught them to throw stones stand now with bent backs and decrepit, reaching hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He never did leave the spot, though. For two years or so, he waited there for her among red petals. She always arrived with the same laughter and the same irreverence as before\u2014but her dwindling state showed through her mask like light through linen, and he continued to wish he could help somehow\u2014until he finally realised that he could<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was two years of meeting and parting and dancing around the subject. He owed it to her; she had saved him first\u2014but the words were still so hard. She dodged his questions so glibly it exasperated him. At last, one afternoon, in that pink-yet-blue evening light, he found the need to stop her and ask<\/em> outright:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome and live with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly, it seemed so obvious. She needed a home. He needed company. They could make it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBecause I can\u2019t let you suffer for who you are. Because I want my heart to be here. Because Mother and Father won\u2019t come home, and the house will always be empty\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He clenched a fist, eyes closing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Life isn\u2019t a straight line. It can change. It will change. They\u2019ll earn enough one day. They\u2019ll come home. We\u2019ll live together. It will happen.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then she gripped his wrist in affirmation, and for seconds, he forgot.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He still remembers the days when he called loneliness\u00a0peace. Cherry-red pond side days, dull and flat like the stones he so often tossed at the water to smash the clouds below, petals spread like spilt blood on the banks. Pale cream dawn days, like the light that sat on the gliding swans\u2019 wings, as they […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[13,19],"class_list":["post-172","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose","tag-original","tag-short-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/172","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=172"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/172\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/172\/revisions\/174"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=172"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=172"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/circlejourney.net\/writing\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=172"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}