𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 |𝐃.𝐌

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐛 𝐢 𝐫 𝐭 𝐡 𝐝 𝐚 𝐲 𝐝 𝐚 𝐢 𝐬 𝐢 𝐞 𝐬

"𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤, 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝."
— 'Breathe' by Taylor Swift

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DRACO

December 29th, 1987. Seven years ago— age ten.

My mother’s favorite pair of patent leather heels make a rhythmic click on the wooden floorboards of Hemera’s front porch, as she elegantly climbs the three steps leading to the mansion’s polished vestibule. Father’s wider footfalls close the distance that refuses to grow between them, his feet determined to cover the same spots her own abandon, like her shoes mark a trail he trusts enough to follow blindly. A trail that could fade away, as though imprinted in soft sand awaiting a wave’s erasure, yet can take him to places no map could ever depict.

Placing a hand on the small of her back when they finally get to the front door, I take a moment to catch up to them, watching as he takes her in. She doesn’t look at him, but I can see how the sight of her melts off some of the roughest edges of father’s usually strict gaze. The emerald gems hanging from her lobes. Her white fichu that occasionally slips off her shoulders, revealing the pale skin that the thin straps of her dress leave exposed. The verdant skirt that stops at her ankles. The beautiful hairstyle her platinum and brown strands are weaved into, resting in a braided bun at her nape.

Mother could always turn his expression into the one of a man willing to spend an eternity hallucinating over whatever love-drenched memory his recollection can behold. Given how father excels in scolding his features into the blankness of a mirror with nothing to reflect, I consider this the closest he’ll ever get to declaring his love when anything with a pulse is present.

Around us, the night is like a heavy blanket sewn with a thread of shimmering starlight, the moon only a thin, curved slice of silver light that perfectly resembles the Cheshire cat smile depicted in my leather-bound copy of Alice in Wonderland. Looking at it now, it’s almost hard to picture it full and bright, the sun’s cursed twin that’s forced to hide parts of her away instead of reveling in her alluring beauty.

Tiny snowflakes dance in the illuminance of the street lights, shimmering and shining while bracing their fall as if knowing the greatness of their purpose— how they are meant to hide the world’s imperfections beneath that blank page that promises the laughter of kids, the hosting of snowball fights. Winter has enfolded every alcove and storefront of Salisbury in its frigidness, those merciless, frosty hands hanging icicles on canopies as farewell gifts.

Every sidewalk is slippery. Every balcony railing is wrapped up in flickering Christmas lights and every single household smells like mince pies and chocolate pudding. All of these things, along with the holiday songs playing on repeat collectively declare the reason why everyone is busy celebrating and taking a break from life’s burdens.

However, the big ‘birthday girl’ banner attached to the door of the Somervilles’ mansion announces more than one reason to commemorate the 29th of December. Other than the fact that the decoration’s crookedness could easily drive a compulsive person mad, a smile cranes my cheeks at the sight of its golden glittery surface shining when the headlights of any passing car fall on it. 

I come to stand on my mother’s side, hugging Hemera’s present closer to my chest, trying to protect it against the biting gust of wind blowing in our direction. Mom wraps an arm around my shoulders, while father grabs the metal knocker beneath the peephole and knocks twice. It's not unusual for our silence to last when it’s just the three of us around, yet there’s a thin line between having nothing to share or just choosing not to allow any words to slip past your lips. I still haven’t found a way to tell the difference between the times when silence is a choice and not the result of insignificant happenstance.