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( I could have done more with this prompt, but .. .. hm. 8| ;; dislike the ending as well. )
068. Nostalgic
The biggest snippets of memory Greece has left of his mother are few and far between, even when he is settled in the glow of nostalgia he gets when he enters his old attic.
Images of her are more scarce than the remnants of feelings, but what he does see is a young woman, olive-skinned, dark curls collected back in a bun, a thicket of hair; she was no older than most women, of good stock, child-bearing hips hidden beneath her robes.
But she carried her son with her like a prize, her badge of honor, little slip of skin and hair that he was. He guarded her from men's looks, even the barest of glances. Not even Rome would touch her, she would burn him, her green eyes like fire, lips, acidic.
But she was soft with him, always, always, always. Cradling him at night, candlelight on the stones of the small home they could afford. It was always cold but in her arms he was warm. He liked playing with her hair, the jewels that fit over the curves of her collarbone, her rings.
She was never rich but they got by; Heracles was a happy child, small and chubby, so she never worried much anyway. He ran with Gupta and laughed, but napped like the cats that followed him everywhere; at first he'd resisted, kicked them away and frowned, but soon he learned to love them as his own, Gupta as well.
They'd licked honey from their fingers and lay full of bread and olives in the sunshine, the warmed grass in a meadow sweet as cakes, as their mothers talked in their clipped but familiar tones. They'd chased the Cretan waves, sliced up their legs falling down on the cliffs of the same island, had cried, but they healed. They always did.
Just as a child misses his tooth, his mother - wound is fresh, open, something that not even time or recollection will heal.
 men getting pregnant · Sun Jan 03, 2010 @ 01:42am · 0 Comments |
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