I walk Henry down the path to the lake, pushing his chair. There is a heavy silence hanging in the air, and words stick in my throat. I want to tell him about the room, but when I look into his sad innocent eyes the words just refuse to come.
We turn the corner, and through the trees the glistening waters of the lake appear. Henry sighs sadly, and I know what he is thinking, for I am thinking it to.
Mother used to bring us here for picnics when we were young, before Henry’s accident. Mother allowed me to wear breeches on these trips, for no one else was ever around. She used to chase us, and we used to bring down bread to feed the ducks.
Tears once again threaten my eyes, but for Henry’s sake, I force them back.
We reach the grass, and I must drag the wheel chair to bring Henry any further. Amice had offered to come with us to help, but this was not a moment for outside eyes.
I lay out the blanket, and set out some sandwiches. Henry stares sadly out at the water, and I look at him sympathetically.
“Would you like me to read to you?” I ask, my voice is strained, I do not wish to do anything but think. But I do not want to see the tears that I know are hidden fall from his eyes. I do not think I can bear it. He looks at me and simply nods.
He does not need to fake a smile. We are alone now, and we do not need to use honorific with each other. If we did he would call me Mistress instead of sister, and would only be allowed to appear happy in front of me.
This I do not want.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.”
The sounds of the lake fall silent, my voice the only thing that is carried by the wind. Henry does not look my way, he has turned back to the lake. I close the book of sonnets, and kneel in front of him. He turns his head back to me, his shaggy blonde hair falling over his eyes.
We will need to get it trimmed again.
I smile sadly at him, and I can see the hurt behind his blue eyes. I reach out and wrap my arms around him, holding his small body tightly against my own. We do not move for a while, this is something we both need.
To lose your mother, these feelings cannot be expressed with mere words, the pain is not something that is easily forgotten.
No, this simple embrace does more than words ever could.
