On parenting

Just about every adventure in parenting, I suspect, is a referendum on one's own parents, barring those rare experiences of near perfect parents and stellar parent-child relationships.  No less is this true with my own experiences.  And while I certainly don't have the grave grievances some unfortunate children grow up with (no sexual or drug abuse, emotional abuse was perhaps slightly above average but nothing out of the ordinary for most families, and physical abuse I limit to only a few specific times I was spanked, not all.)  But there are some very lasting, negative effects of the choices they made that I do not want to repeat with my own child.

Kyle and I were searching for some paperwork when I stumbled across my old school records.  I think I'd seen it before, but for whatever reason, it struck a nerve moreso this time than ever before.  It was attached to my final sixth grade report card, an evaluation on my participation in the Gifted and Talented program, which I had been in for the prior two years.

"A good student to have in class.  She is chronologically and socially "young".  Organizational skills need work.  Strong deductive reasoning skills."

My teacher, Mr. Akers, had written this about me, and I have no doubt exactly to what he was referring to.  The chronological youth refers to the fact that I am a December birth, and at the time, Rhode Island school cut-off was 12/31.  It's why Kyle, Connecticut-born, is almost a month older than me, but graduated a year after. Socially young refers to the fact that at about this time, it was becoming more clear that I had zero friends.  It wouldn't be till next year that I really hit my low point, but it was obvious here too.

Excuse me for being dramatic, but reading this brought me to a silent sadness.  This was a tragedy in slow motion. At times I refer to myself as a failed extrovert. in that naturally, I am extroverted, but have often found myself, by my own hand, forced into introversion through an inability to connect with other people.  I've since developed some of the skills I need to be charming in limited spans of time (my profession requires it actually, and the fact that my boss told me "you seemed like extension [education/outreach profession] folk." about my interview for the job indicates that this is not solely my own opinion.)

But I still have always had this specter over me.  That secretly nobody likes me.  They are just appeasing me for now because they feel bad for me.  It doesn't matter how many times I meet up with friends, no matter how reassuring myself or others are to me about the nature of our relationships, a tiny voice in the back of my head makes me doubt it all.  And during those low times in my life when it has seemed like nobody was around, that voice becomes a yelling lion.

It's a severe lack of confidence.  And this started here.  A negative feedback loop where I'd fail to connect socially, lose confidence, which would make it even harder for me to connect socially, which would make me lose more confidence, etc.

So what do you do with a kid who is academically bright, but socially immature?
(Here's a start.  Don't use the word "immature" to describe your child at every possible altercation.  It's pretty useless.  It provides no specific path to improvement like, "Try approaching people who share your interests" or "Don't say mean things".  What kid goes around thinking "shall I be mature today, or immature?" And it ends up just being a personal attack. Thanks Dad. - rant over)

My parents asked me on more than one occasion if I wanted to be / I thought I should have been held back a grade.  Of course as a child my answer was no.  Why?  Because kids "know" that if they are being held back, it is because they are stupid.  Who wants to go on the record as being stupid?

And honestly, being held back without some larger strategy might not have worked anyway.  After 3 years of Montessori Preschool, public school was already not academically challenging enough in elementary - and contributed to me being lazy since I didn't have to work hard for grades early on.  And I am fairly sure, as #2 of 4 kids, who ended up not even being the biggest failure of us all, my parents were not going to put in the effort and attention I really needed at the time.

I ask myself this because as I look at my daughter Eiger, I keep a watchful eye for her to display some of the childhood characteristics I did.  I feel like I am walking a tight line.  If she is like me, I want to be there to support her full on where she needs it, to avoid the negative impacts of 6.5 solid years off not having friends when she requires social interaction.  If she is not like me though, but I interpret her to be more like me, then I also run into dangerous territory.  Overcompensation for the actions of their own parents, I suspect, is also a hallmark of new parents.  It is my hope that Kyle's presence will be a mediating influence on my capacity to overcompensate.

But to not address Eiger's troubles like my parents' didn't address mine is truly a possibility that should be crushed.  I suffered some severe depression in addition to the life-long shakey self-confidence.  Tried to commit suicide once.  Lost interest in doing school work, which meant in spite of my smarts, my grades suffered.

I don't think they ever made that connection.  The organizational skills my teacher referred to were a symptom of my social isolation, not a concurrent problem.  I have vivid memories of coming home and being so unwilling to address homework because I needed escape from the depression I was experiencing during the academic day.  Staying up late playing computer games was literally the only way I could stop feeling shitty about myself, especially before high school when I participated in sports. (A strong desire for escapism is trait I still possess!  Thank you video games and fantasy novels).

What will I do if Eiger is like me?  I don't know that answer quite yet.  It will depend on the specifics, but it will likely involve a big time and effort commitment on my part, which I plan to invest if need be. 

What would I have done if as an adult now, I had the ability to choose for the child me?  I needed a fresh start, with supportive parents.  Which probably would have meant being held back a grade, but with the necessary caveat that either my stay-at-home mother would have needed to partially home school me to keep me academically challenged (instead, she just threw workbooks at me and told me to sit down and do them while she was busy with other things.  Of course, I didn't.) or look for a supplementary programs for the same effect.  Maybe take a pro-active stance with the school to try to design a program where some of the work I did matched or exceeded my academic grade while I was grouped with my social grade.  Possibly try to get me enrolled in another school.

But doing what essentially amounted to nothing, (a few trivial things here and there like workbook throwing and threats to take me to a psychologist), and instead becoming increasingly hostile when the child expresses their unhappiness by acting up, was the worst way to address this problem.  It was a guaranteed way to make things worse.  Whatever I do with Eiger, my plan, though I have no illusions that it will be difficult, will be to address it with patience, love, and an attempt at understanding.

Beginning my Dreams in the Skies - #7 A Halloween Nightmare (Blog Translation)

After studying abroad in America for about half a year, I had become accustomed to the sound of English and started to slowly be able to have a conversation. But I wouldn't usually be the person to initiate conversation. I couldn't really express my full feelings, so I'd really just answer other people using simple vocabulary. After over a year I did finally start conversations, but my chest would hurt with how nervous I was. This was unusual for me, as, much as I do now, I used to arm myself with little thoughts like "whatever comes!". When I was 18 I didn't really have much fear about starting awkward conversations. I was all about awkward conversations!

During this time period though, I was dealing with an extraordinary amount of culture shock. So then there was the Halloween Party during my second year in the US. I was invited to a Halloween Party by one of my friends who lived in the same university dorm as I did. It was a large scale, an off-campus party where something like 300 students gathered, and for me, it was my first American experience at a large party like this. I couldn't really speak English very well so was especially socially awkward but with the bustling atmosphere of the party, the drinking, wearing the witch costume I had made with my friends, I was super excited to join in.

Even though the party started in the evening, it was already super dark. The house we went to was huge, but it was also old, and it seemed like the music and voices from the party could be heard from miles away. When we entered the house, there was absolutely nowhere to walk, with all the people that were there. But I saw faces I recognized throughout campus. It really was a student party. Everyone was dressed in various costumes and seemed to be drinking enthusiastically. This was the first time I had been to a party with so many people that when I'd enter a room the smoke in the air would sting my eyes. I got separated from the Japanese friends I came with to the party, and when I suddenly lost sight of them, I became very uncomfortable.

Since I couldn't really speak English well, I stuck to saying "Hi" and smiling and nodding while looking for my friends. I went to a basement room but with all the smoke couldn't really see much of anything. It wasn't so bad as being in the middle of a cloud, but it got difficult to see in front of me with all the smoke. Suddenly, the floor from upstairs started rumbling with the sound of stomping feet, running around. "What was that? What's going on?" I thought as the police entered the room. I think they shouted "Nobody move!" but with all the smoke and whatnot, I didn't really understand what was going on.

After being brought outside by the police, they asked me some questions. I didn't know at all what was going on and with my fear and discomfort, I started shedding some tears. They had been looking for illegal drugs, as it turns out. Nowadays, in some states, marijuana is legal but at that time even just carrying it was illegal. And in those days, naive me, who knew nothing about any sort of smoke, couldn't tell the difference between cigarette smoke and marijuana. One way or another, they got the gist that I wasn't involved in anything and I was released from custody. But as I walked home, the full effect of the shock hit me. Instead of going to what I thought would be a fun event, everything was turned upside-down and I saw the full scariness of America. It made my heart sink.

For me, as a typical born-and-raised in Japan kid, it's normal to have no experiences like this, isn't it? We don't have opportunities to take illegal drugs and get caught up in the mess from that. For me to get caught in this for my first Halloween in the US, it was a real trauma.Until my own child was born, I had come to think of Halloween as this harsh thing here in the US. There isn't much more of a huge culture shock than to be an innocent, straight-edge Japanese person, plopped into the middle of a country where it is so easy to get drugs.

Original Post at: http://bizseeds.net/articles/321

i miss you

 What do you do with a memory? Do you toss in a box, cart it around with you wherever you go? Do You collect them,  like  shiny seashells in a sand bucket?   Show each one to an audience, a carefully vetted one, so that you can you'll get the reaction you're looking for in your display.   What does a memory feel like? Is it soft if you touch it? Can you wrap your arms around it and squeeze it with love?  Will it return your affections? What exactly can you do with a memory?
What does it gain you, to remember, but never again engage?   Can we truly call ourselves enriched by something so flimsy and malleable as a memory?
You have good memories of him.
The begs the question, was the memory the end goal? was the day today, in and out, ups and downs, affections, rebukes, endearments and disgusts merely required steps to obtain your ultimate goal?
Your goal?
That memory.
 Which is the most important memory? Is it the first? Is it the last?  How is it that dearly held memories and so quickly turned to poison?  Taunting you at what will never be again. You can remember, but never again can you have. Does this make all memories suspect?
 Are you supposed to carry each memory, treasure it like your array of credit cards, lest you lose even one and thus lose yourself.  Your identity.
What am I supposed to do with this box of memories?
No memory may be carried forever.   Those who remember become those remembered and those remembered, too, fade away. So what is gained by carrying a memory at all?
To be wholly dependent on the memory indicates future aspirations are lost. Only memory remains. When there are no memories, and only  aspiration exists, we call that birth.  We call that exciting, we call that hopeful. But when only memories remain, we call that death.
What do you do with a memory, when sadness has already filled you to capacity?

Labor Day

The calm is not enough to lull you. It's the microseconds after a hard sprint, before the rush of endorphins washes strain from your muscles, where every sensation tells you that your body is still struggling, still suffering, though you no longer make progress. It is planting your second foot firmly in the snow at 14,000 feet, gasping for breath in the oxygen-thin air, succumbing to your body's demand for respite, but knowing that you've lost your acclimation to the pain when the next step begins. And in that lucid moment you have in pause, you are cognizant enough to look up in search of the aspired for mountain apex, but it's whereabouts are obscured, by cloud or by false summits.

There is an end. You know that in fact, but you cannot know it in feeling. In the animal part of your brain, facts are a weak opponent to what you feel.

Yet you take your next step, always climbing, each step more trying than the last. Each step a commitment to ignore the protests of your muscles, your bones and joints, to pursue your crazed obsession. But here, there is no choice. While mountain fever might possess one to never give up until the top is reached, the option always remains. Turn back. Turn around and instantly feel thicker air with each step. Let gravity ease your burden.

But this is different. The next contraction is an event already decided on 9 months previous. There is no turning back any more.

You may be engulfed into your own personal world of pain laying down, or perhaps sitting. But I stand, arms wrapped around the neck of co-manufacturer of my condition, in the midst of calm. Well before the next wave comes, I can already feel the involuntary tightening ball in my midsection. Oh no. I utter, and the signal is given that soon I will be far from this place, and anything my body does while I am gone is of no concern to me any more.

The sensation grows, sucking me into a black-hole of pain, throwing out only the gamma radiation of primal cries, manufactured by my body in the absence of commands from a now vacated mind. The body has no better instruction and knows no better response.

Information, once entering this black-hole, can never escape. Even the memory of the pain cannot be retained. The knowledge that it was experienced survives from outside the event horizon, but the experience itself will never surface again. At least, until the next contraction.

Slowly, it releases me back to my body, and I am in the moment, understanding only that I am back in the calm I look down. A fat drop of blood, laid thickly in deep red, forms a perfect circle on the laminate hospital floor. I stare at it until the next wave overtakes me.

When I surface, another drop. And I plunge into the world of pain again.

Three drops. Then gone. Four. Five.

Now there are too many drops to count. They have overwhelmed the floor and begun to coalesce and form a crimson pond.

Hours ago, I could remind myself, soon, this experience would all be just a memory. Now, there is no opportunity for such self-reassurances. The mind is unable to collect itself in time to do anything more than recognize its own existence between bouts of oblivion.

Time does not exist as it does normally. Ninety seconds are an eternity, yet the hours that pass collectively are no longer constructed by the minutes and seconds of the clock. They are a series of waves and calms, lined up together, one by one, like beads on a string. There is no end in sight, but neither was there a beginning. This world simply always was, is and will be. The end of labor, like before its start, does not dictate it existence. It has merely defined my visit.

The end of labor and the start of active pushing brings me back the real world. Pain now has purpose. It is active and prophetic. The calms, the few that exist, now host the possibility of hope, desire, fear and anxiety. It is a place where strength of mind and heart can make a difference. Where it is possible to have courage.

Oh no, I utter as each pushing contraction begins to build, but their quality has changed. Before I was dragged away, helpless and passive, to an isolated plane of existence. Now, this pain, andmy words steel me and provide strength. Screams are not the absence of the mind They are products of will.

Here it comes. I gather my strength!

Push! Mind and body act as one with determination.

Do not give up! Now is the time to show strength.

“Okay, look down!” the doctor tells me and I do. Surprising to me, somewhere in the middle of the battle a child was born.

Welcome to the outside world, Eiger.

Neil and Gord

Here I am, newly moved into the first house we've ever bought, nearing the end of what has been a miserable 7 months of pregnancy with our first child, and this is what keeps coming back to me:

Neil Young got a hot new girlfriend, and Gord Downie got brain cancer.

The significance of these juxtaposed Ontario-born and bred singers comes from the fact that they are creative minds behind the music my spouse and I cherish the most. For him, songs of Cinnamon Girls, Southern Men and Hearts of Gold have put him the most as ease. For me, The Tragically Hip has never been far from my side. And now their lead singer has a death sentence that numbers in perhaps months.

Which is to say there is no significance to the fates of these two Canucks – the one who left Canada to become a big name in music in the United States, and the other who never quite penetrated the northern border, but became a symbol of what it means to be Canadian. But I am the daughter of a very long line of devout Roman Catholics. Pattern recognition and finding meaning where coincidence masquerades as divine is a part of my DNA.

I don't find myself often moved by the lives of celebrities. When David Bowie died, I heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth among friends and family, and the world. But his music still exists. I can still watch the Labyrinth at any time and the summation of my relationship with David Bowie is alive as ever. Alan Rickman died, and in some small way, that is sad to me, but I still get a chuckle out of Dogma, or appreciate his dour Professor Snape. Nothing has changed. I never knew these men past their works.

And in many ways, the way I have interacted with The Tragically Hip will remain the same when Gord Downie is gone. The same Silver Jet, way overhead, exists as it did when it punctuated the bittersweet feelings I had as I prepared to leave my life in Japan and return to the United States. It takes all your power to prove that you don't care, but I didn't even try. Even in that awkward state between the blanket of childhood and the declaration of adulthood, the gift of Cordelia from the blonde afro wielding Toronto classmate, along with the shrugged off sentiment of “Yeah, you kind of aren't allowed to be Canadian if you don't like them” had me instantly hooked.

And in the days at the height of my own transient life, the voice of Gord Downie validated my cabin fever, and onward I went, to the next country, the next state, singing “And change yourself into something you love when you leave, when you leave, when you leave?” The quality of my departures differed, yet those lyrics seemed to apply as much to an exciting start to life in rural Japan as it did fleeing deep Appalachia.

Like as with the other close men and women of my life, surely I have sewn my wild oats among other purveyors of song. Perhaps that is even too trite a description, as like with those men and women, my interaction with the movement of words to music were significant to the past lives of younger days. But much like with my spouse, there has always been one set of songs I find myself coming back to, each time, infusing my life with new meaning.

And that's what it means to live a relationship, doesn't it? To continually grow, to constantly see with new eyes what has been before them for years. To change, while staying the same. To live and grow up in synchronicity.

Although perhaps impact has been largely one way. A conversation with back-up singer Paul Langlois about the Canadian Mockumentary Trailer Park Boys in the quiet back parking lot of the Vogue in Indianapolis is a memory only I keep, likely, and Gord extending his hand to mine mid-song in New York City was a product his musical compulsion, I suspect. But with my hand, I wanted to help you lift enormous things, a pinch a sting I don't feel a thing, as the earth revolves around the sun.

On the flipside of this meaninglessly significant contrast of singers, lies another relationship with the music of one Mr. Neil Young. The man who, after 38 years of quintessential love bound in marriage, left his wife and found another woman in short order. Suddenly, the cheerleading I had gotten from him in his ode to old love, that I had grappled onto as I jumped into the unknown world of sticking around instead of running off to the next adventure, seemed to have been disingenuous. Because I'm still in love with you, I want to see you dance again, because I'm still in love with you, on this harvest moon. Once rock solid and supportive, they've become cheap.

Neil Young got a hot new girlfriend, and Gord Downie got brain cancer. Gord, I thought you beat death of inevitability to death just a little bit. I thought you beat the inevitability of death to death just a little bit.

Never Grown Up

When I was a little kid, my dad ate Wasa every morning for breakfast.

I'd sit, with my fruity loops or charms of luck, sugary sweet in my bowl, milk turning a sickly pink, kicking my legs back and forth, as they wouldn't touch the ground for several years. I'd watch him eat Wasa and wonder, how anyone could eat such a dry looking, tasteless cracker, and nothing else, every morning. Well, Wasa and the foul smelling dark, bitter liquid known as coffee. What sort of strange mind-control could possibly posses someone to choose a stiff sheet of crusted bread over sweet marsh-mellows and rainbow colors, to choose the taste of burning beans over the smooth and chocolaty goodness of flavored milk?. My breakfast smiled at me with big joyful eyes from a box every morning, but his hid behind brown paper packaging and four lonely letters, Double Ew, Ayyy, Ess, Ayyy.

What was clear to me was that adulthood was the process of finding boring things, interesting. It meant choosing a monotonous drone about the weather over a colorful cartoon about medieval monsters living in New York City. Taking a walk around the neighborhood instead of climbing rocks and digging up salamanders in the backyard. Spending a Saturday afternoon snoozing instead of adventuring in made up castles, battlefields and space ships. Going to the beach, but never going into the water.

I knew it wasn't that adults liked boring things. I understood there was something I just couldn't see. Why did the man who listed numbers on the TV hold such rapt attention of the tall people around me?

So when my dad came home at night and turned on the business news, I joined him. He asked if I liked the show and I said I did. I did. The stream of up and down arrows, numbers and figures nearly put me to sleep, and the fat man talking reminded me of a stinky uncle, but I liked watching the business news. I pretended to be an adult, with my dad. We were being adults together.

When I turned 6 and a half, (a tough part of becoming an adult means forgetting the importance of half birthdays. At that time, I had not yet forgotten.), two things happened. Celebrating by now very advanced age, I resolved to try Wasa. It was crunchy cardboard. In spite of the smile I put on in attempt to mirror my dad's face, I never tried it with him again. Clearly, adulthood was still a far off dream.

The second thing that happened was an announcement from my parents. I was a big sister. My baby brother or sister would come a month after I turned 7, so we could think of the baby as my birthday present. That's what they said to me, anyway.

We all changed with that announcement. My father gave the unborn baby a name; Philip, a male name. That was when I found out he had done the same with me. I was to be Joseph, after him. Sadly, his namesake-to-be didn't turn out the way he had planned as a girl, but now was a new chance for a real boy.

"How is my son?" he would ask my mother, in spite of her protests that it could just as easily be his daughter she carried.

"SHE, is doing fine," she'd say and they'd both have a laugh.

"Why do you want a boy?" I asked my father. "Don't you like girls?"

"Of course, I love you," he replied, unhesitatingly, "But there are some things I can do with you, and some things I can do with a boy."

"Like what?"

He smiled, perhaps not realizing the sense of insecurity I suddenly had, "When I was a boy, I would go fishing with my father. We'd build treehouses and he taught me chess."

"I want to play chess too!" I shouted.

"Helen, you never had any interest in chess. Remember when I tried to teach you checkers? You wouldn’t stop fidgeting. Chess is a lot harder. You need to concentrate."

"Can a boy concentrate better than a girl?" I asked.

"That's not what I meant." End of conversation.

By chance, dad had been right and the baby was a boy. He was a chubby baby that looked to me like a sack of potatoes. His arms didn't work right and he couldn't even walk. Not like me, I thought. I could walk, talk and not poop my pants. I knew the whole alphabet and could read up to Level 2 books! Philip couldn't do any of those things, but my father disappeared to his side, nonetheless.

Dad still ate Wasa but we didn't watch business news together anymore. He spent that time with the baby. Maybe this was another level of adulthood, I thought. Not only could they find boring things interesting, they found fussy, stinky babies charming. Being an adult must really mess up your head, I concluded.

Philip learned chess, eventually. He also built a treehouse with dad, and they went fishing. I wanted to go fishing too, but I never asked. When he got older, dad sent him to some “Young Programers” camp, a hundred miles away or so. The Bay Area wasn't what it was like back then. The Silicon Valley of my childhood is a memory when the internet was still nascent but bathed in an era of the revolutionary optimism; of dot-coms and start ups. But some people remembered the area when the idea of a “computer on a chip” was revolutionary, including my father. Dad knew saw how much the area was changing the world, and he wanted his son to be a part of it.

Philip was 9 the first time. He returned with a hero's welcome from both of my parents. Somewhere along the line dad had sold to mom the idea of a future that included a wildly successful child who would shape the future world. At 16, I never made the mistake of thinking they talked about me.

But Philip had a different opinion. Next summer, as dad was preparing the car I caught my brother in his room, alone and face down on the bed. It looked like he was whimpering, but when he turned around to my touch I couldn't see tears.

“I hate camp.” Philip admitted to me. “They make you sit in a classroom for 6 hours a day. All my friends from school are going hiking or playing baseball. I don't want to go back. Can you tell them something? I'm sick. Something. Or break my leg?”

“Then you'd be going to camp in a cast,” I joked mirthlessly. Philip scowled.

“Phil gets really homesick when he goes to camp.” I lied to mom.

“Oh that's so sweet. Your brother really loves his family. Joe, did you hear that?” My dad had just entered the kitchen where my mom was packing lunches.

“What's that?” my dad responded.

“Phil really misses us when he goes off to camp.”

“Maybe this year he shouldn't go,” I offered, calling upon my couple of summers' experience as a lifeguard to inject the maximum amount of authority allowed in a 17 year old's voice.

I had not even finished speaking when dad responded to mom. “What a great kid. There's nothing more important than loyalty to your family.”

It was time to go and Philip flashed me a betrayed look. I gave him a sympathetic shrug that got forgotten as my mother started on about how they'd send him care packages every week.

I went off to college the following year. Needing space, I had only applied to out-of-state colleges, which was something that would pain my wallet years later. But at that time, going to Colorado State was one of the best decisions of my life. I joined the Rams Cycling Team and I made some amazing friends I still keep to this day.

But the most important thing I gained at CSU was a sense of confidence. I quickly fell in love with my biology classes. Truly, the boring had become interesting to me and I knew I was arriving at adulthood. Charts and scans held my undivided attention. Sitting still for hours going over slides and cultures were exhilarating. Coffee started to taste good as it kept me up long nights in the lab. Wasa, an easy way to get breakfast on little time, became delicious. I might have put jelly or cheese on it from time to time.

So started my career in medicine and neuroscience.

Philip kept going to camp though. Later, a 4 year stint at UC Berkeley gave my parents what they had always wanted: their son in computer science.

I stayed in Colorado, did a residency but ended up back at the university as a full time researcher, studying memory, but I visited California often. Christmas dinners were full of conversations from the political to the philosophical, but nothing held the attention of my parents so much as Philip's technological mumbo-jumbo. I say that affectionately. I'm sure I'd lose him just as easily if I had brought up medical mumbo-jumbo.

Three years ago was the last Christmas with my parents. Philip had been in mid-conversation about his work in semi-conductors when he casually mentioned that Melinda had been berating him for coming home so late in the past few months. Luckily, my sister-in-law was not present.

“What an ungrateful woman!” My mother shouted, “She doesn't know how lucky she is to have such a high earning, high achieving husband like you. You should divorce her!”

Phil and I were shocked. The fact that my father was not, concerned me. He had gotten up and gently patted her on the back soothingly.

“It's alright, dear. They are fine. Don't worry about it.” Within minutes my mother had calmed back down to her usual cheery self.

I waited until my brother had left before cornered my father.

“How long has this been going on for?”

“What?” he mumbled, pretending to no know what I was talking about.

“Mom. How long has she been having outbursts?”

“Give your mother a break Helen. She's been having a lot of stress lately with your grandmother in hospice now. She didn't mean anything by it.”

“That's not what I mean, Dad. This could be serious.”

“She got really angry the first time three months ago or so.” he finally conceded, “Which, I will remind you, is when your grandpop died and grandma entered the nursing home. She's just stressed. That's all.”

“Please. Get her to see a neurologist. At least.” I didn't want to voice my biggest concern, but the words brain cancer stuck to the roof of my mouth.

“You worry too much. Don't be over dramatic.”

“Dad, please.” I pleaded. Visions of my mother spiraling down into mental infancy flooded my mind. I tried to put myself as if I were in front of any patient or research subject and make my next words as clinical as possible. “This is my professional opinion.”

I knew before the end of the sentence I had failed. In the atmosphere around my father, my every word transformed into that of a whiny 12 year old.

“I'll take her tomorrow.” I offered.

“You won't. Your flight.” he replied firmly.

“I'll change it. This is important.”

For all his failings, my dad was a fairly calm man. I can only recall him yelling at me once, courtesy of my poor decision to sneak away in the family car to visit a boyfriend as a teen. I was instantly transported back in time to that Christmas. His voice rose in crescendo.

“You will not. You are making a big deal out of nothing. The only thing you will do is stress your mother out even more. We are not speaking about this anymore.”

Five months later I got a call. Not from my father. From Philip.

“Mom got diagnosed with cancer today.” he informed me. “It's too late to treat.”

“How much time does she have left?” I asked, not sure which was stronger, a life-time of indignation, or the sadness of the impending loss of a parent. My concern for my mother won out. I didn't have a useful target for the indignation anyway.

“Doctor said a couple of weeks, at most. You should get over here soon.”

“What about dad?”

“He's in total shock. This has been a real surprise for all of us.”

My thirst for indignation made a stunning comeback. “He didn't tell you what I told him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“What?”

“I'm done, Phil. Sorry.”

Within the week I had made arrangements to see my mother, one last time, but I told no-one except my husband. She was unconscious and the doctors told me she probably wasn't waking up again. I held her hand and said my goodbyes mentally. I said them to her. I said them to Philip. But to my father, I said nothing. His goodbye had already been said to me, long, long ago, about the time a little girl tried to eat Wasa and like it.

Chapter 13 - Part IV

Dund dah du wei bo bo feng

"It tells stories." She finished. "And if you use a different ideograph," she raised a finger and started drawing an invisible character in the air, "ţun means story."

Shar-wu dropped her hand with dramatic effect on one of the knobs. The reverberations of the "Bo" ţun rippled through Onion's flesh.  "The Great Nothing was uniformly formless, existing with neither chaos nor order." Shar-wu began to chant with each word matching a sound of the ţun. Matching the name of the ţun with the meaning that was given.  The Yibouhese was archaic, and Onion could only understand a little, but she could understand enough to know the Yibouh were wrong. "From the original nothing came absence and its opposing extreme, existence.  And from there the opposition began.  Existence enjoyed existence, and absence enjoyed absence, and so each were delineated, just as darkness does not mix with light during the day.  So existence pulled together to make the world, the sun and the stars, while absence clung tightly to in the spaces between."

Shar-wu stopped and glanced at Onion as if to say, "What do you think of that?"  Mentally, she replied, A great nothing? That sounds silly.  How can something come from nothing? ,  but she had gotten good at holding her tongue around Shar-Wu.

"It was very beautiful.  I can still feel the notes in my bones." she replied verbally.

"You should be here when they have a service.  You cannot help but feel the primordial powers of opposites in eternal conflict.  It really makes you think about the universe."

Onion looked quizzically at Shar-wu's last sentence.  She'd never heard the term 'universe' before.

"Truth be told," Shar-wu continued, "There is another reason why I wanted to see you here."

"What?"

Shar-wu pulled another knob and the sound was still in the air when she spoke again.  "I was told to give this to you, discreetly."  She handed Onion a sealed scroll.  "And I'm starting to get worried about you."

Onion took the scroll and saw the seal of the prince.  Roh-ath.  "What have you done to get correspondence from the son of the Empress?"

And why are they sending me his message through you? Onion opened the scroll.

"Do you need my help to read it?" Shar-wu asked, but the text that stared at Onion was not Yibouhese.  It was in Eirdred.

We have an insect needing to return home, and you are ready for your first mission.  You and Cedric will travel in two days.

Onion didn't understand why she was being told this in this way.  Yaj-Oth had said nothing.  Cedric could have just as easily sought her out.  Unless, Onion thought and suddenly she stared at Shar-wu with abject suspicion and hurt.

"Is this whole damn country just toying with me?" she asked who she thought was her teacher and friend, tears forming in her eyes.  "You are one of them too?"

Shar-wu looked shocked and injured at Onion's words.  "What?"

Onion pulled a knob of the Khon-tun and let the sound drown the chamber.  "Are you bei-thal too?"

"What are you talking about?  What is bei-thal?  Is that a Nuish word?" she stammered defensively.

"You say this as if you don't know.  Stop pretending.  Stop all the lying.  Why can't anyone on this evil continent say things as they are.  No.  Everyone speaks as if they have two tongues.  I am sick of you all."

"Vren!" Shar-wu grabbed her student by the wrist, and Onion felt a tug on her web.  "Please listen to me.  I have no idea what you are talking about."

The tugs on her web grew stronger and the next moment, when she looked Shar-wu in the eyes, she could recognize this as sincerity.  Shar-wu had in fact, never heard of this term before.  The realization of this forced a gasp from her lips.

"Oh no."  said she.  "Oh no no no." she turned to the khon-tun again and pulled a knob.  "Oh Shar-wu no, I'm sorry.  Please forget what I said.  Go home.  Forget about this conversation.  Never utter it again."  She looked about the Cathedral.  It was as empty as it had been when they arrived, and the echo of the khon-tun was still present.  "Thank the spider for the Circle of Keepers.  Just promise me," she said, turning her attention back to her web, traveling to the web that Shar-wu never knew she had.  There, she began spinning thread.  "Promise me, until the end of your days, you will never ever again say the word 'bei-thal'." And with the breath of her sentence, the word was suffocated on Shar-wu's web.

"Yes, of course," Shar-wu looked alarmed, "I'll never say it again,"

"What?" quizzed Onion.

"What?" she looked visibly dazed, "Remind me what you just said?  I can't seem to recall."

Onion relaxed visibly.  "Thank the spider."  She pulled herself from Shar-wu's grip and hugged her friend.

The onion story thus far

I'm posting this on the off-chance that somebody tries to read all the Onion posts from day one.  These posts are the most rough of rough drafts so names, language, concepts are often changing as I go back and edit, and re-edit and re-edit.  This is the story up-to-date with all edits up to Chapter 12.

The updated pdf can be found here: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B9tDRfZXg8tzZUdzdkMtcDB3bDA/view?usp=sharing

Chapter 13 - Part III

Vren met up with Shar-Wu later that afternoon, as she had continued to do every 3 or 4 days of the 6 day week since being recruited by the Silent Scholar.  She still had a long way before she could consider herself fluent in Yibouhese, and the strange art of making marks on parchment to signify words was still a practice done out of concentrated effort; not natural ease.

"Dear Vren." Shar-wu greeted her language student with a hug and it took all Onion could muster to avoid cringing in pain.  The embrace of her teacher aggravated her scarred and raw skin under her clothing.  "I'm glad to see that you've finally started to pick up on Yibouh fashion." she remarked, noting the Onion's gradual retirement of her wardrobe.  First went the Eirdred style, loose but stiff linen short jacket then the Nüish style tight leather torso wrap and belt and finally the nondescript leather breeches that were standard issue for off-duty City Enforcers in Eirdren City.  Instead, they were replaced with soft flowing robes of layered, light silk, known as bhuon with a satin belt keeping it together.  "I wasn't going to say it directly, but... well, "she looked at her student searching for understanding as well as forgiveness, "Well it doesn't matter what I think of fashion in other parts of the world.  Your foreign features really fit nicely with that purple bhuon!  It's so smooth and shiny.  And I love the crane embroidery.  All we need to do now is change those dirty leather boots to some proper ket, and maybe do something with your hair.  You will be gorgeous."

Onion held her tongue, not waning to make an issue of the matter, so all she did was smile.  She couldn't tell Shar-wu that her other clothes were blood-soaked.  Nor could she divulge that the bhuon wouldn't cling closely to her beaten flesh like the leather did.  The loose fabric was the only thing that felt bearable to wear.

"I want to do something different for our lesson today.  Tell me, how much do you know about the Circle of Keepers?"

Onion felt herself involuntarily heave in disgust.  "We have our own gods in the Outer Crest."

"I'm not trying to convert you, don't worry," she chuckled, "You look so unattractive when you frown. But the Circle is an important part of Yibouh, and really, just about anywhere within the Empire.  If you don't understand it, you'll never get a good grasp of half of our idioms and customs.  I want to show you the University Cathedral."

They arrived to a massive building, made of white marble like most of the University on High.  Onion had seen the building from a distance - it was an unavoidable sight from just about anywhere on the campus, bu she'd never been up close.  Looking at the giant hexagonal monolith so closely, Onion felt small, even smaller than looking at the imperial palace.

At its base - a walk around which would probably take no less time to encircle than what is needed to finish one's morning meal- huge stones taller than Onion connected in a circle to form the foundation. of the cathedral.  After climbing two stories of stairs, the building proper began with smaller, but equally smooth, straight and unblemished marble stones were constructed in hexagon, no doubt one side for each Keeper.  

Further up her eyes traveled to see that eventually, after 5 or 6 stories, each wall separated from the other and continued in a triangular spire until its tip.  From this angle, she could not see it, but at each spire's tip, flying buttresses of carefully wrought steel, gilded with vines of gold, bridged each point to a center circle, also made of gilded steel.  Within that circle a globe of polished copper and steel hung suspended, occasionally rotating with the breeze.  The globe was only visible from the palace, being as high as it was, however.  When Shar-wu told her of it, and that it was to represent the world, Onion laughed at her face.

"You're being serious?" she quickly recanted.

"The world is round," Shar-wu replied sparking another laughing fit from her student.

Onion made a gesture of surveying the land from left to right, "Doesn't look very round to me."

"But it is.  Our scholars figured it out ages ago."

Onion liked Shar-wu, but she didn't know if she could believe something so outlandish just on her say so.

After a long climb, the two stood at one corner of the hexagon and before two giant oak doors - imports from Eirdren.  One was just slightly ajar, to allow access to visitors.  Upon entering the cathedral, Onion saw that the inside mirrored the outside.  Where each spire had begun, a huge pillar made of rose marble held it up.  Six pillars in total, alternating with each wall, which helped give a sense of an alcove though no inner walls separated each section.  At each wall, richly colored oil paintings, marble and plaster statues and hundreds of candles surrounded an altar, one for each of the Keepers; Ganthay's altar sat opposite of Sheg's, Vera of Rüern's, and Dagleth of Rel.  To Yibouh's credit, or perhaps it was merely a reflection on the diversity of people that traveled to the University, Ganthay, the patron keeper of Yibouh, had an altar that was only slightly more adorned than that of the other Keepers.

Before each altar were a series of benches that looked more like slabs of marble thrust from the polished floor.  There were no backs to these seats so that patrons could face either the altar of the Keeper they had come to appeal to, or during a service, turn around and face the center of the building.

A railing of rose marble, gold and silver formed an inner ring beyond the pillars, and beyond that railing, the floor disappeared, save one little bridge of stairs originating from Ganthay's side and terminating at the direct center of the cathedral.  It was here that the pulpit rested.  

"Come here," Shar-wu motioned towards the break in the railing leading to the pulpit bridge.  The bridge was fenced off with a black iron grate, but just to the side a simple staircase of unimpressive granite hugged the walls of the round opening in the floor.  After only 12 steps, it stopped at a landing where a velvet bench of red sat before a lacquered wood board covered in knobs.

Onion didn't know what to make of it. “What is this thing? What possible purpose could it have?”

Shar-wu smiled, offered a finger pointing overhead as the captivated Nü took in her surroundings. While the wooden board, with its two dozen knobs or so stood no higher than the nose of a tall man, wires of steel fed through the compartment behind the board, through holes in the wall and up along the sides of the one corner of the cathedral that didn't have doors.  They continued, strong and taut up into the rafters. And well up above the two, and all the altars, about two dozen sheets of metal, all the same sheen of silver and the same rectangular shape, but of varying sizes and thicknesses, lay suspended from those rafters.

“This is called a Khon’ţun. ‘Khon’, of course, meaning…”

“Sound." Onion repeated the word, pointing to her ears, "I know that.” Onion said defensively, “but not ‘ţun’”

“In your language,” asked Shar-Wu, “are there words that don’t mean objects or actions, but they mean the very sounds themselves?” Shar-Wu paused, and stomped her feet hard on the stony floor. “’puţ‘ is what this sounds like, so puţ is what we call it. ţun is a sound of those sheets of steel we see above us, as then bend back and forth with a pull of the knob on the board. Let me demonstrate.”

Shar-Wu lifted a delicate hand but the mechanical Khon’ţun made the knobs easy to pull even by her.

dund dund dund. Went the notes that Shar-Wu selected. The echo of the sheet metal as it flapped back and forth reverberated throughout the cavernous cathedral chamber and Onion could feel the vibrations pulse through her, from her toes to her heart. Surely any within the Sextant ground would have heard Shar-wu’s performance.

She continued, dund dund dund. fa dund woh dund bu. dund.

Onion knew she has heard the tune before, but could not place it. It seemed background noise to the music of her life of late, but spiders are visual creatures, and the sounds of the world often pass them by.

“Why is it not called an ophlin’ţun?”

“Because the khon’ţun does not produce music."

AWG Short Story Writing Prompt - The Greatest Shame

Hello Writers!

To celebrate one year of existence, The Ashland Writers' Group will hold a one-off slam-style reading.

The challenge: to see if your revealing, first-person anecdote gets us hooked in 700 words or less. We prefer a rendition from real life, but fiction is also welcome.

Parameters:

Max Length, 700 words.

Read aloud only, no copies.

10-minute discussion on the quality of the hook, the arresting incident, strength of tension, level of humor, and resolution.

(Author's note: This isn't completely true story, but it is an amalgamation of thoughts and experiences, ranging from vaguely similar to verbatim exact, pushed into a consistent narrative form, with exaggerated characters and simplified backgrounds.  Names have been changed in this version, names were not changed for the oral telling)

Eyes dart back and forth faster than an Olympic sprinter. Heart races and the slight taste of metal edges the sides of her tongue. What is possessing me to do this now? Why am I being so stupid? She thinks, hoping her thoughts will bully herself into stopping. It doesn't work. And in a public place? Can't you just go home Caroline? You can do this in the privacy of bedroom!

This year she's been at the top of her game. She can't understand why her classmates think high school is hard; everyday gets better. Memories of confused, friendless middle school days are quickly dissipating and in its place a carefully forged persona is erected, giving her purpose and sense. She can finally define who she is, and that surety of self is perfect for sewing seeds of friendship.

A month ago she was honored with a trophy. “Most Valuable Player” Though Coach Souza was more likely to taunt her and run the team into the ground, the speech that accompanied the trophy was one of the most touching. He told the team that she was the rock of the defense, and while the team was known for it's offense, it was the combination of the two that won the state championship 4 years running. “Old Man of the Mountain” he nicknamed her, referencing the ever stoic, never-changing rock formation, famous in New Hampshire.

In middle school, she was weak. She let hurtful gossip drag her into self-pity. But now she is strong, sure, confident of herself. The world understands that nothing bothers her, neither physical pain, nor the absurdities of clique drama. And she doesn't need tell people that she is immune. They can see it. They see it in her punishing workouts. They see it in her clothes, from the baggy cargo pants and steel-toed military boots that say “I don't care about your stupid fashion” to the tight-fitting t-shirts that show her muscles and trim form, to the butch hair cut that made her sister say “I can't tell if you are a boy or a girl!”

She loves her muscular legs that can sprint around the field and hit the ball away from an offensive assault. She gives up her jacket to shivering teammates, braving the biting cold winds of late autumn in New England. Even then, her face resembles unyielding ice more than human flesh.

So why was she trying to ruin it all? Why is she here, in the school library, taping away at the keyboard? Each tap chips away at her carefully constructed wall, threatening to destroy it.

She hears the library door open, and her heart jumps! Minimize! Minimize! Work you stupid button! She clicks frantically trying to will the computer with her thoughts. She wants to fling her head towards the doorway to identify the intruder, but she knows it will invite more suspicion. She thrusts her irises far left until they hurt, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person who could ruin her. She cannot see if the window is gone on her computer screen.

The figure approaches. Laura Zellner. Shit! One of those girls who used to smile at me while she told her friends I'm pathetic. Might as well broadcast it on TV. Her heart threatens to burst out of her chest.

Laura speaks, “Did you decide your topic for Srta. Rozenburg?”

She dares to hope, glancing at the screen. The web page Mezoamerican Culinary Traditions stands proudly, beaming joyous rays of electronic light.

“Uh, yeah” she responds, wanting to sigh in relief and hoping the shakiness in her throat isn't in her voice. “It's on Aztec food. Uh. You?”

Laura speaks but the Stoic Warrior Queen of Tiverton isn't really paying attention. She's sure her inattention will ensnare her in some kind of humiliating trap Laura is setting, but this time, she truly doesn't care. Nothing could be as bad as what could have been if she had gotten caught.

Laura finally leaves. She clicks on the minimized window. The page stares her down accusingly. I know your secret. Says the internet.

She clicks the “X” on the page and Lovely Renaissance Dresses winks out of existence.

Less than one year after she graduates from high school, a rock formation in New Hampshire crumbles to dust. 

Chapter 13 - Part II

Onion shifted uncomfortably.

He did not wait further for her answer.  "They can be used for that." he said, sensing her thoughts,"But not always.  An attractive child can go where even the most silent and careful of spies cannot.  One this young may accompany me on a mission, as my son, or daughter.  He may be left with the other children, listening in on the conversations of parents, recording every last word."

Vren turned to the child.  "What is your name, boy?"

"Jaune." said he, casting his eyes downward.

"You still do not believe me, Vren.  You must learn to if you wish to survive this." again she felt the sting on her back.  "Very well, go ahead, talk to him.  Get it out of your system so that we may progress.  You think he is human.  You think he has hopes and dreams, memories.  He doesn't.  His body only knows how to behave as he had always behaved."

Vren wanted to be skeptical, but the sinking feeling in her heart told her that she understood Yaj-Oth perfectly.  Nonetheless, she knelt before the boy and brought his eyes to her own.

"Where is your mother?"

"I don't know." he replied briskly.

"Tell me about yourself.  How is it here?"

"My room is where I sleep.  I eat food with other bei.  I do not sleep hungry and I do not thirst while in the care of the bei'thal." he uttered slowly.

"Do you ever have fun?"

"I don't know."

Vren frowned, a little surprised at her own reaction.  She had been on the continent too long perhaps;  she was feeling sympathy for this child what had nothing to do with her clan.  Perhaps it was still the effects of the bei's power - she still did see him as Nü, though she tried hard to see through the illusion.  Though perhaps even a child of Yibouh could be seen as deserving of mercy.  She'd have to think more on that later.

"Jaune." intoned Yaj-Oth, "You are a child of Falloth, .  Your name is Keedavalu.  This is your mother and I am your father.  Go on and play while daddy and mommy attend to their business."

Subtly, the boy's eyes widened.  Light reflected off of his pupils radiating a greenish brown where there were hints of gold before.  His hairstyle did not change, that would have to be done physically, but it did seem to darken in color, while his skin cast a smoother sheen.  Suddenly, he smiled and laughed, looking for something to amuse himself with.  He settled for shaping his hands into animals and plants and interacting with them in pantomime.  It was a game Vren had never seen, neither on the Outer Crest nor in in any of the provinces of Yibouh through which she had traveled.

"Ask again." Yaj-Oth instructed Vren.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked.

"Mama, can we leave soon?  I want to catch crayfish with Vetiamaha again."  What Vren did not see, what she could not see, was that somewhere, in fiction, mythology or observation by one of the Learned over the years, a Keedavalu and his childhood friend Vetiamaha that the bei Jaune drew from to become who he was now.  In exchange for his own personality, he now possessed hundreds, if not thousands, making this goa'bei more compromised of spirit than even his handler Yaj-Oth understood.

"I understand this boy.  He's speaking Yibouhese, not Falish." Vren observed, "Wouldn't that dispel the illusion?"

"It is a limiting factor of the goa'bei, or rather, of bei in general.  Once the compromising process has occurred, we cannot teach them language any longer.  We can teach them words, and we can teach them accents, that is easy enough.  I can point to an object, a sword, call it 'Wuob', but I cannot teach them Eirdren.  There are some things in this world that are too complex for mere machines.

"This is what makes our jobs as bei'thal all that more crucial.  It is our task to know our bei, their strengths and weaknesses, better than we know even our own.  An effective bei'thal has no fear of exposing their bei's flaws, because they use a bei only for its strengths.  A poor bei'thal does not anticipate this and exposes his bei's weaknesses to the world.  Likely, he dooms the bei, or even himself to destruction.  Even worse, he risks exposing the very concept of Compromise to our enemies.  We are so effective because we are not known for what we do.  The day that knowledge becomes commonplace, we are useless to the Empire."

Yaj-Oth bei'thal did not need to elaborate on the consequences of becoming obsolete in the Empire, though the cultural gap perhaps left her with the wrong impression.  The Nü generally abhorred becoming parasitic to their clans.  Yibouh generally abhorred intelligence leaks.  And Yibouh was not recalcitrant in plugging those leaks.

Chapter 13 - Part I

"Close your eyes.  Raise your palms flat and forward."

Good.

Breathe.  Focus on that breath.  Start by counting.  1, 2, breathe in.  3, 4, breathe out, et, auj, breathe in, vok, kuth, breath out.  Then let go of the numbers."

He gently touched the tips of Vren's outstretched hands and she felt the warmth of his fingers permeate her own thin skin.  Warmth, and something else.  A steady beat vibrated through her being as well.  Could it be the beating of his heart?  The flow of his blood?  Or something else.

Yaj-Oth, a Yibouhese bei'thal, pulled his hand back, but the beat continued.

"I am simply making apparent what is already there.  I'm setting you in the right direction, handing you the leash.  What do you see?"

"I don't see anything.  My eyes are closed." 

He slapped her face for that.  "Now is not the time to play idiot, student." he said, but he was not angry.

Vren did not budge.  Instead, she reached out on her web, feeling the presence first of Yaj-Oth, and the 50 or so souls or half-souls throughout this side of the barracks.  They were in all directions, and aside from Yaj-Oth, none seemed to have purpose with her.  She struggled to find what he was looking for.

"The Silent Scholar warned me about this.  Clearly we need to beat it out of you." he resigned himself, drawing the nine-tails short whip from his belt with his powerful hand.  "But my promise to you as teacher is that I will break you of this.  You will be bei'thal yet."  He struck her bare back with enough force to visit her flesh in fresh bloody streaks, but not more.  The wounds broke open others from days past, but they went no further than that.

Vren cried out in pain, crouching her body away from the blow, and her focus lost not only her connection to her web, but to the beat radiating from her fingertips as well.

"Stop it!" she cried.  "Please."

"Why do you play your tricks when I give you the answer into your hands.  Try again student." He continued.

"Stand up straight.  Begin again."

Vren pulled her body and her mind back into focus, moving her attentions to the pains in her body and the frustrations of her mind, to the energy of the air around her.  Again, Yaj-Oth brushed her fingertips and again she felt the beat within her body.

"Focus.  Do not use your head.  The kennel husband does not philosophize with the dogs."

"He commands them to attention." she responded and Yaj-Oth rewarded her with a curt nod, though Vren could not see it.

So instead Vren followed the beat of her own heart and traced it to that of her fingertips, where that foreign rhythm flowed.  This time, she found the connection.  She followed the source of the beat, through the door, out the room and down the hall.  It snaked around a corner and through another door where it found its end - its origin.  Vren tugged.

Within seconds there was a knock at the training room door.  Vren opened her eyes.

"Good.  Good.  Now, command it to enter."

Vren cleared her throat and ordered with the most authority she could muster in a foreign tongue, "Enter bei."

The door opened and a young girl of perhaps 15 tides or so walked in.  She was beautiful, exotic and charismatic.  Vren could not tell where she came from, her skin was dark enough to be considered Nüish, but light enough that in the right lighting, she might be mistaken for Lithenese. Her eyes were round enough for any one of the known tribes of Benge, yet dark irises and a piercing glare could have her be Yibouhese just as easily.  Vren blinked, and when she looked again, she realized her assessment had been all wrong.  This girl was clearly a Nü.  She might be a hauntingly strange, if not beautiful child, but she had a strongness in her face Vren had grown up adoring.

"A bei'thal is not supposed to be tricked by their bei." Yaj-Oth berated, bemused.

Vren looked at the similarly shirtless man, clad only in breeches and leather bracers.  She shook her head and blinked her eyes again, trying to realign her mind through a symbolic physical gesture.  When she refocused on the child, she realized she was looking at a very strange, non-descript child, and a boy at that.

"This one is compromised of appearance.  We call that goa'bei.  Certain features of his face and body will be accentuated, depending on the preferences of the viewer.  He will never age until the day his body finally gives out and will need to be replaced."

"What was the cost?"

"I do not forge bei.  Ask another."

"Why did it have to be a child?"

Vren grimaced as she felt the whip at her back again.  Although it was light, the fresh wounds stung.  "You are asking the wrong question.  How might this bei be of use to the Empire?"

A thought popped in her mind.  An insidious thought.  She was afraid to suggest it, afraid she might be right.  She shook her head in disgust.

Yaj-Oth smiled.  "These are no longer human beings Vren.  Whatever they were, however their lives ended, that might have been a tragedy, but it is over now.  They cannot feel anything.  Nothing you do can harm them further."

The child continued to wait patiently at the door, mindlessly starting into space as he waited for his next orders.

Chapter 12 - Part V

"Khe..." Anita tried.  "Khe, he heb" she tried to pull out her husband's true name from her mind, practically coughing sounds out to give her final goodbye, but she couldn't complete the tune long-silenced in her heart.

She kneeled at the lifeless man and removed her head scarf, revealing a ghastly sight to Keubroc and Reiba.  Her eyes were dried out peach pits barely resting in sockets whose lids could no longer close, as they were not there.  Like streams feeding a lake, puffy, old scars meandered from cheekbone, forehead and temple to those eyes.  She put her hands to those eyes for a moment, and shook her shoulders in a stilled way, prompting Reiba to whisper "What is she doing?"

Before he could answer, however, Anita responded, having easily heard the woman.  "One is supposed to cry, isn't that right?  This is what it looks to cry, yes?"

"She says she is attempting to mourn the man." Keubroc translated to Eirdren for Reiba's benefit.

"I don't see why." Reiba began to reply matter-of-factly, but Keobroc interrupted her,

"Yes, when someone you love dies, you are supposed to cry.  And you are doing just fine."

Anita rose again in haste, seeing her task as accomplished, though no tears were shed.  "I do not love him, of course.  Do not mistake it."

"No, but you did."

"Perhaps.  I don't remember."

"I will tell no one." he promised.  She rewarded him with what would have been a nasty glare, had she the use of her old eyes.

"I will dispose of the body." she said unceremoniously, replacing her headscarf, to the relief of both Keubroc and Reiba, who had been disgusted by her visage.  "and then we must go."

The bei collected the man she had once held in her arms with tender affection.  Her smaller frame made the task difficult, but the exposed part of her face made no expression of it.  She brought it to a large, flat exposed rock where she laid the body out carefully.  The bei'thal had imprinted in her mind the need to erase the idea that a deceased bei ever existed by any means possible.  But fortunately for the man he once was, Davin was to leave the world in the way his male ancestors had since the Nedjleen had been carved from the stone of Mount Kidje by the all-mother.  He would rest in the palm of the all-mother's hands until the father sent his servants to take him, bit my bit, back to the sky, back to the firmament.  The all-father's crows would pick Davin's bones clean in a glorious sky burial and soon he would be sitting with the all-father in embrace of the all-mother and her daughters, the women of the Nedjleen.

Or so Anita would have believed long ago.  Now, she did not know what to believe, she only knew that this was what was done.  She stripped the body of its weaponry first, and pocketed it for her own use.  Of the black clothing he wore, that too was removed, including his chiffon headscarf.  His eyes, like hers, remained eternally open, and eternally dried out.  The lines of his scars, like hers, ran to his eyes and his eyelids were long gone, though the wounds of their removal had long since healed.

She started a small fire, using some dried brush and a few pieces of wood she had salvaged from one of the ruined houses of the village.  To the fire, she first added the clothes, pausing for just a second before finally adding the headscarf, in a failed effort at sentimentality.  It too burned with the rest.

Keubroc was finishing the last of a quick make-shift bandage for Reiba when the bei returned.
Anita walked over to the woman and roughly grabbed Reiba's right arm.  Reiba was pulled up without grace, but the disgraced noblewoman, still in pain and grasping at her side with her left hand, was unable to resist or defend herself.  "You will come with me until I am told what to do with you."  Reiba looked at the bei uncomprehendingly, as Anita's speech had never changed from the Yibouh tongue.

"Good.  You will help me to complete your master's quest.  Let us head to Pho-Boteth, then."

"You are not the one to order me, you who sound like bei'thal.  After the Silent Scholar has worked on you, perhaps our interactions will be different." As if to punctuate her intent, she drew a dagger to his direction.

Keubroc stepped back attempted some measure of diplomacy, "Of course.  Lead the way then.  I will follow."

"I am not going to Pho-Boteth."

"Where then?"

"When you are bei'thal, you will ask that question, and you will receive an answer.  If you are to be who you say you are to be, then you should follow the orders of the masters.  Go to Pho-Boteth on your own.  Begin your training."

"What of Chet?  Where shall this one go?" the gegleth worried, but he was ignored by both the nüdwuob and the bei.

"If you will not answer, then I will follow you.  I will not let the woman who killed my brother in arms walk away from my sight without seeing justice!" Keubroc said with agitation.

"I don't care about your feelings." Anita barked.  "I am trying to follow everything my masters tell me.  This is supposed to be easy!  The bei'thal speaks and the bei obeys.  Yet you and your stupid woman  make me feel that if I obey one of my commands I betray another.  I do not know how better to follow orders!

"You may not follow me.  You may have the scent of Vaughn bei'thal on you, and the words of the insect to back you up, but you are not bei'thal.  I cannot kill you if the Silent Scholar has designs on you, but I cannot show a foreigner anything more.  Do not even attempt to follow.  Make so much as one step towards me or this woman, and I will hear you, and I will kill you and I will kill her.  I will kill everything I see." she backed up, dragging the injured Reiba.

"What is going on, what is she saying?" Reiba shouted, panicked.  "Where is she taking me?" Her face was a mask of pain.  "Don't let her just take me away!"

Keubroc did not move a muscle and he watched the former Lady Archne get pulled away.  He stood frozen for some time as the two moved slowly back down the mountain.  "Keep an eye on that wound or you will not have a prize to return to the bei'thal!" Keubroc called out to her.

When she had left from sight, Keubroc gathered his things.  "Come with me, Chet." he sighed.  "It looks like you are with me."

Short Story - You in Me

Do you remember that narrow little pathway we followed on those muggy summer nights?  Do you remember how it weaved perfectly through the starry blue-berried juniper bushes of your neighbors' yard, just so that neither side, north or south, could notice our trespassing?

We used to navigate through inconveniently cast shadows, drawn on by obnoxious porch lights, while they obfuscated the rocks and roots jutting out from the dirt path where we descended to our own, secret beach.

Do you remember the halo of orange from the city bouncing off the smooth ripples along the night blackened bay?  Sure, the water seemed friendly, enclosed in a landscape embrace of city, forest and beach, but it was only a temporary visitor, on its way to that vast, unknowable ocean.  It was that ocean, that Atlantic Ocean, that I learned to hold in fearful respect.  Day in and day out it dragged the waters of sound and stream from the safety of their watery abodes to the abyss beyond the continental shelf.

But that beach was ours.  I remember when you brought me to that beach for the first time.  It was probably about 6 months since I had moved from Monterey, but who really counts that sort of time at that age?  I just remember that it was late spring, and our school days were showing signs of wear at the edges.  In a couple more weeks, we'd be free; free as the waters of the bay into the ocean.

You later told me that when you first saw me, you were disgusted.  Navy brat though I was, you hated how much I brought my past life east with me.  It wasn't just my clothes - the down jacket I wore in class every day because your early November days were the coldest I had ever felt in my life - you said it was everything, from the way I spoke to my sun-kissed skin.  You told me that in those first few weeks, I wore my homesickness like a cloak, and if I spoke at all, I spoke of sand between my toes and the sounds of seals upon the rocks.  If I wanted out so badly, you thought privately, I should just go back to California.  New England was only for the strong.

But slowly, my classroom reports on life along the golden coast became of interest, and while many of my sentences begun with the phrase, "In California, we..." my stories became a window to another world, one you hadn't considered before.  I got you more curious than irritated.  The invisible wall I never knew existed finally began to crumble when a class project lumped us together, and finally you learned that I was a person.

I was oblivious to your derision, but perhaps that fact allowed you to dismiss the feeling later when you needed to.  No regret, no nostalgia.  You simply responded to what you knew.  I think later, every time you told me of this story, you secretly loved it, scientist that you are.  Your understanding of me had been wrong but you took pleasure learning something new.

Embedded in murmurers about Bunsen burners and dissection scalpels, I told you that more than anything, I missed the ocean.  I told you that I missed walking along the rocks and smelling the mild sea breeze and the fragrant response of the cypress and the manzanita.  I missed walking on sea saturated sands with my bare feet, forming perfect imprints of every toe detail, and then watching lapping waves erase the evidence that I had ever been.

That afternoon, we skipped our final class and walked all the way to your house.

It was one of the few times I saw the sun and our beach in the same sight.  I started to feel my heart drop when we got there.  Yours were not the smooth beaches of my memory.  Jagged rocks jutted from seemingly everywhere, and various hues of cobbles threatened any barefoot adventurer.  But you dug at the cobbles and unearthed some sand, and cupped my hands, smothering a fist full of course sand into my palms.  I felt the tiny pebbles slip their way past my fingers like a sieve.

And in a voice just under normal, barely over whispering, you told me, "I've brought you the ocean."

With no reason other than my sublime gratitude, suddenly I loved it.  This ocean, this Atlantic Ocean, with its salty smell hanging more heavily in the air, it's waters rougher and darker than that of the mild Pacific, and small rocky beaches, hidden away from the world, unwelcoming to all but those who needed no welcome.  It was the perfect place to learn about you, and myself on those dark summer nights.

There was that one time we went, after we had escaped the rusting metal, greasy vendors and salty sweet smells of the waterfront carnival the town put on every year.  That was the first time I found out you smoked.  Do you know how much you threw my world upside-down that night?  How you cracked my carefully constructed sense of the line between what I knew of goodness and despair, of the wall that separated that which held promise, and that which was forsaken.

How could it be? I pondered to myself.  My sheltered world I knew no longer made sense.  You were smart.  You were fair, honest and rational.  Those with intelligence, those who were going places, going to see the world, knew better than to smoke.  At least that was what the posters said.

You said you planned to quit at age 27.  Why age 27?  I never asked, though I think I know now.  Until age 27, you knew you'd be immortal.  You knew that until the age of 27, you'd live forever and you'd still be travelling the universe with eyes unshackled by decay.  I wonder if you are still smoking?  I wonder if you are still immortal?

But I gained more from you than the mere shattering of my simplistic world.  In our limited time together, we explored the cosmos with our words, pondered the injustice of a civilization based on justice, examined the fine line between knowledge and fantasy.

I remember one night in late August, the last month we had together before we began our final year in high school.  That's when I realized that when we headed of to college, going our separate ways, life without you was going to be as strange as that move from Monterey that was forced upon me so many years prior.

I sat upon a large boulder of granite, feet submerged in the gentle lapping tide.  I never tired of this.  Monterey knew little of summer and heat, but the hot days of summer I knew from family camping trips in Yosemite were poor teachers of a New England summer. Hot days persisted into hot nights, instead of being vaporized by cloudless skies.  But here, to my continued delight, sunshine or darkness, the water was comfortably warm.  To feel my skin surrounded by a loving watery embrace under the starry sky, knowing the cold of space away from the warmth of the sun, gave me hope that even during the darkest moments of our lives we might find oceans of life where the water was still warm.

You asked me about the future.  You asked me about my future.

I was bland, reciting the list of colleges I was going to visit and the studies I was thinking of pursuing.  The future seemed like some far off tomorrow that threatened to arrive, but never quite did; something we all knew was a farce anyway.  I barely knew what I was doing, but the adults of my life had given me a good enough script to play the part well.

You told me you were going to become the foremost pimp north of the Mason-Dixon.  I laughed.  Lucky at love you were not, though you had your own sweet charm.  You didn't crack a smile, but I knew you were laughing on the inside.

The moon reflected in smoothness of the bay and I played with my toes, making new ripple patterns that broke its light into pieces.  That night, a near full moon, it lit up the whole sky.  Your voice didn't change when you smoothly announced that you had met a girl earlier that summer.  You were thinking of moving in with her at the end of school.

You were staying here?  You weren't going to university?  I sat still swirling my toes in the water, thinking of my shock, but not saying a word.

I didn't need to say a thing.  Whether you knew what I was thinking, or you had grown accustomed of others in your life disparaging your choices, I don't know, but you said, "When she first slept over, she left a sweatshirt behind.  I tried to return it to her, but she told me to keep it.  That way, the next time she stayed over, she'd had something to keep her warm.  That scared me." you admitted.  "My hand was played.  At the very least, there was going to at least be one more next time that she'd be there.  I didn't want her to get so close.  I was so afraid of losing myself, of letting her in." you relayed to me your fears as if you were reliving them all over again.  But whatever hold those fears had on you, melted when you said, "I just never knew a person could be so amazing."

I had never been in love before, so I didn't recognize it in you.  If I had, would I have said something differently?  I don't know.

"She is just so perfect." you confided to me.

"What is so amazing about her?" I asked honestly.  Could she hit a baseball at 80 miles per hour?  Did she speak 5 languages including Arabic and Chinese?  Did she master Advanced Calculus?  Any of those qualities would have been amazing to me.

It was only thanks to the moonlight that I saw your furrowed eyebrows.  But you forgave me for my indignities.  "I can't explain it.  You just have to know."

It was a weird answer coming from you.  You, who as we debated the inevitability of existential nihilism in modern society, never failed to demand the full articulation of every thought I lobbed at you.  You, who prized clear thought and demanded a defense of any assertion, were casting a hazy fog on your own behavior.

"Oh." I conceded defeat quickly, unwilling to drag out the uncomfortable situation; something you would have normally chided me for.  I looked up at the stars, or rather, those that had survived the journey of billions of miles in space in addition to that of the orange shield; the glow of the city.  They always looked so few and lonely to me compared to the abundant stars I'd see camping in Yosemite.  But in that moment, those stars and I shared a misery, to see friends so clearly, yet to be light years away from any kindred spirit.

"Anyway," you told me, changing the subject "I'm still going to school.  I'm not that stupid.  I'll just be local and commute."

I never learned exactly how this girl was so amazing.  That was our last trip to that beach that summer.  We were mostly in separate classes that year.  When I think back to that time, it seems like there's a gap in my memory, where you would have been.   But it isn't that my life was empty.  Far from it.  Those twilight days of my childhood sped past me as I watched those last few months in New England turn from reality into memory.

I got the impression that it was time for girls my age to get interested in boys my age, so I started dating too.  My own efforts led to no boys that could hit a baseball at 80 miles an hour, nor speak 5 languages, nor master Advanced Calculus, but they helped force me through an unspoken ritual that initiated me into the world of adults.

But I got a call from you that winter vacation.  "Meet me at the beach in an hour." you said and that was all I needed to hear.  It was an overcast day, where the greyness of the rippling clouds reflected in the ripples of the grey waters, making it seem as if heaven and ocean extended into infinity.  It was one of those winter days when your skin feels stretched and brittle, scoured and windswept from the crystalline air, so I made every attempt to cover my exposed face with a woolen scarf of plaid.  We did not need the cold of the night sky to chill our bones further, so we huddled in the muffled sunlight of a wintry afternoon.

"She's pregnant." was all you told me before the smell of slowly incinerating cloves reached my nostrils."

I elected to concentrate my efforts on seeing if I could manage a cloud of frost breath through the scarf I was wearing.

You turned to me.  "Are you even listening?"

I nodded.  I was, of course.  But the only thing I could think of was all the wasted talent.  High grades in physics and chemistry didn't pay for diapers.  Not while we were so young.

"The baby is due in late August.  I don't know the first thing about being a father.  I don't get why this happened."  I ended my frost breathing experiments and looked at you with new eyes.  For the first time, I saw a kid, scared of adulthood.  Where I once saw my guide and mentor into the cold culture of the northeast, I saw someone as lost as I had ever been.

"I guess I'm lucky." you said, but your charisma had been scraped raw by the recent events and your words sounded hollow.  "Her dad is going to let me work at his insurance office.  So my kid won't be destitute."

I winced at that most of all.  In the span of five minutes you had turned from wise friend, to scared child, to walking corpse.  Your life was over, at least as far as I knew.

And suddenly I missed our philosophical discussions at our summertime beach.  Somehow, all those things we talked about, those grandiose theories on life and the universe seemed trivial compared to the story of one lone homo sapian in the history of human kind; your story.  What is the death of a star in comparison to the short changed dreams I had for you?

But whereas before we'd talk out the silly thoughts going through my head, bringing them to a purifying daylight, I said not a word, and those thoughts festered into pity.  It was a pity that I used to retroactively paint every memory I had of you.  It was a pity you neither asked for, nor wanted.  But it was a pity you also were never aware of, so it was never exposed and laughed away.

"Who knows.  Maybe after a year or so you'll have saved up enough to get back on track.  It doesn't have to be hopeless."  I finally spoke.  But not an ounce of my words were said for your benefit, I realize now.  They were said for mine.

"No." you said, with a new resolve.  "It doesn't."

We stayed there for an hour or so, with the edge in your voice slowly being worn down to a smooth calm.  We talked about how maybe one day you'd bring your kid here, to this beach under the stars, and talk with him about life and the universe.  My stomach turned at that thought.  The beach was ours and to be unfaithful to me, even to your own flesh and blood, made me feel robbed.  But again, I did not say anything.  I simply starting drawing shapes and patterns with the heat of my fingertips on the frost covering the granite.

But by the time we left that day, I was feeling better to have seen you and our beach as we had a hundred times before.  Though the glow behind the grey blanket of clouds above us had dimmed by the time we left, I felt warmer.  I wasn't going to watch you change the world, but that day I did watch you don a cloak of humanity.  You had me in your confidence, and while I understood that the nature of our relationship was going to be forever different, now we were truly friends.  Equals.

Spring came and went and as graduation loomed in the near future, we started meeting again at our beach.  By then I had grown to more than simply love a New England spring, I had become addicted to the feeling of a summer long promise of new life after surviving an unforgiving winter.
I had come to understand the world differently in the 5 years I had been an New Englander, I realized.  Like the ebbing and flowing of the seasons, the theme of hardship and renewal was ever present.  It calmed me, I realized.  Sure, I had grown to understand that as much as I may have longed for the warmth of summer in the dead of winter, joy in late spring soon turned to oppression of humid July and August, and though during those months thoughts of arctic refuge, the relief of a cool fall soon led to frozen toes and icicle tears.  But so too, packaged in those private miseries, was a promise: Spring was just around the corner; the refreshing breezes of Autumn were not far away.  Nothing is permanent.  Neither fire nor ice.

And when I came to the conclusion that our friendship had very much followed this model: closeness and distance, encouragement and disappointment, it gave a sense of stability that only comes with accepting the wild unknown that is life.  Though there would be times that we did not speak, though there was a time that you hated me, or ignored me, and perhaps, you'd give away our secret beach to someone who could never understand its significance, there would always be a spring, just around the corner.  We'd always be tied together, we'd always make up a part of each other: me in you, and you in me.

You didn't speak of your child to me in those final weeks of our own youth.  Whatever had scared you so in the winter melted away with the promise of a new Spring.  But no longer did we find ourselves climbing separate branches of a tree, or perching on opposing rocks when we chatted at our beach.  Something had changed that winter, and suddenly we were sitting side-by-side.

I remember that one night, where talk had turned to exhaustion, and in the hour we had left, we dozed under Cassiopeia's benevolent gaze.  It was always much easier to make out her stately "W" in the light polluted sky, rather than the populated skies of Yosemite that I had recalled from my childhood camping trips.  That was how I knew she was watching, and remembering.  If we failed to remember our friendship, surely she'd remind us.

So it was no doubt that she saw me curl up into your arms.  And it is certain that she saw you pull my shoulders close to your chest.  And in that way we remained until your cell phone alarm began to screech a half hour later.  You got up, dusted yourself off, and mumbled something about "paperwork mines".  We never spoke of what had happened that night.  Not to each other, not to anyone.  It is the one thing in the universe that is our knowledge and ours alone.

Your touch was a warm day in Spring.  Intimate, caring and comfortable, but I knew better than to expect anything further, and nor did I want to.  Only the claustrophobic smothering of a dense, hot summer air followed the joys of Spring.  So I was not surprised when it did not happen again.

Summer held us apart for other reasons too.  You shed your motor-board for an oversize suit and tie, and joined the cubical serfdom your child's grandfather had offered you.  While I spent those last few months of New England enjoying the company of friends, and flirted with the world through a variety of adventures, your world had been crammed into a box made of plaster board.

We made it to our beach three times that summer.  The first, was to celebrate our graduation.  We smuggled a box of cheap wine and I saw a silly side of you I had never seen before.   For two hours we delved into the finer details of what we thought the British meant by the words "wanker" and "poofter", and we argued passionately about just how large the largest domestic cat in the world was.  And we laughed.  We squeezed 4 years of laughter between friends into one night.

The second time was in early July.  Night offered little refuge from the heat, but neither of us stayed long enough to commiserate.

"It's time to stop being children." you said.  I laughed.  You had often railed about the arbitrariness of the line drawn between children and adults.  You'd often lamented about how much adults thought they knew more than they did, and how little they appreciated the developed minds of our age cohort.  So surely, your words had to have been in jest.

But you continued, "I don't have time for this anymore.  I've got less than 2 months to learn how to be a father, and here I am acting like a high schooler."

I laughed, more out of shock than amusement.  "I didn't realize the past month and a half had imbued us the wisdom of the ages!  Chill out."

"I'm not joking.  You have no idea what my life has been like these past few weeks.  You haven't a clue what it means to have someone depend on you.  I'm not doing this anymore!" The rock you had been worrying in the palm of your hand made a splash as you threw it into into the shallow waters of the beach, before turning around and storming off.

That time, we didn't leave the beach together.  As I listened to the cobbles crunch beneath your shoes, I sat, throwing acorns into the bay, using the best of my vision to follow them as they floated along the current.  I wondered how long it would take for a tree sprout to look around and see nothing but a lonely ocean for miles.

I was hurt.  This was the darkest winter I had faced with you by far, and I felt helpless to stop it.  I was sure that the Spring would indeed come, but I worried.  I was going to university before the end of the summer, back to Monterey to be near my grandmother while I studied "Human Communication", whatever that meant.  I feared that Spring would come, and I would not be here to witness it.

I knew that I had to end this fimbulwinter myself, or it would be doomed to go on forever.  "Meet me at our beach." I said through a text less than a week before my cross-country voyage.  Somehow, you neither ignored me nor chastised me for dragging you back into my so-called immature world.  You gave me two letters, and that was all I needed.

"Ok."

I waited for you, sitting with legs in the lapping water and a book in hand in case you decided last minute to avoid me afterall.  One way or another, I was going to make my last memory at this beach, a good one.

I heard cobbles crunch beneath your feet as I ritualistically turned pages in my novel, and a let the feel of the of the grainy weave rub against my fingers deliberately before ending my date with Proust.

It was strange.  We had last seen each other only a month prior.  We had gone for months during school when we'd do little more than wave a hello from across the hall.  But time does not pass in the same way when you've been sentenced.  "I missed you, so very much." you whispered huskily into my ear.  "You don't know how much I have missed you."

Your breathe smelled of cheap vodka and I could tell you had been smoking.  You were standing on the precipice of a life you did not ask for, but that you were determined to meet.  The pressure was wearing at you.

You gave me an intimate embrace; a deep, all-encompassing hug that had me trapped, but gave me no incentive to leave.  Seconds passed by like hours, and it seemed an eternity had gone by when I raised my eyes to you and spoke.

"You will remember me fondly when I leave?"

I recognized the look in your eyes.  I had seen it before in some of the boys I had dated in my final year of high school.  I saw that hunger to find a connection that surpassed all other forms.  I saw those boys mistake that for lust.  I had seen myself mistake it for lust, but it was something far more primal.

Months of practice had given me an instinctual reaction to your silent cues.  I brought my lips to yours and waited, having been convinced some time ago that it was my role to wait for your move.  Don't worry, I grew out of that.  But you did respond that time as your lips pressed passionately onto mine.  Beneath the grainy smoke of cloves and your sugar shit alcohol breath, I could taste the ocean on your tongue.  The Atlantic Ocean.

I knew then that would be the last time I ever talked to you.  I knew that though spring had come, and though I had been there to witness it, it was fleeting as always.  The oppression of our distance would cast into a mold our memories.  As autumn turned to winter, I could not be assured that your face would put an end to the cold, but I'd forever have these last memories of you to keep me warm.

 I want you to know that there was a time when I talked of you to others, fondly.  Any close friend in my next 4 years of university learned about the bricks you built in me to make me the woman I am today.  I even spoke of you to every boyfriend, though each telling of our discussions at our beach became shorter, and more abridged, until they turned to lip service designed solely for myself.  But words of you in me never made it to either of my girlfriends.

But sometimes, as I gaze out on Monterey Bay, listening to the seals I find myself wandering back to those outings of ours, if only in my mind.  I've never forgotten your ocean, or the sanctuary of our beach together.  I still remember the taste of salt in your breath and the dim stars that watched us that evening.  But I've made a new sanctuary, founded a new beach, and when we kiss, my wife reminds that there is more to life than the choppy waters of life along the Atlantic.  The taste of the Pacific on her lips are enough to let me know that I've come home.