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do you see the sands of time? |
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( almost completely unedited. read through it once, but whoo! only one misspelled word. I'll explain it when I see you next, sissy.
told from Finland's POV, the word lasta means ' the baby '. Much less awkward. n w n ; )
I stop and stare and feel the heat rise in my face as I realize what I'm doing, watching something so intimate it transcends the physical, is lifted into the realm of the mother and unborn child ( connected so, so much that it is unfathomable, their reliance on one another ) and the world of the broken, the lost, the outcast, and the forever unreachable.
Maybe that's what he has become, these months, Japan; he's spent centuries alone, closed up in his house with the doors of only wood, he was long passed due to be dragged out into the world; but he could live in his isolation ( but now not so much so ) again with ease. Though, he isn't alone, is he? I've been here, camped out for the long haul, setting up my tent and stakes on the couch that is obviously foreign in this room, this wooden masterpiece. But really, he is alone in this, he and his extension, the soul within that isn't quite a soul yet.
A breeze works through the leaves, a bird leaps off a branch, its song a quiet unobtrusive spill of gentle sound. I watch and it lands near him, the broken heart with a hand over the geometric arc of his stomach - perfect, it really is, he once let me see the bare skin without the yukata and it was incredible, the wonderful dance of the skin and the miracle's little feet and hands, look but don't touch - and he doesn't look up. I want to scream with frustration.
He doesn't - he doesn't know how much of a miracle this is, all medical things aside. He can't fathom how lucky he is, really, because this baby will be the eye of the storm, everything raging angry and destructive around him but he is a lifesaver, an idol wrapped in a muslin cloth and left on the doorstep of an overcrowded orphanage, blessed to someone who cannot yet truly appreciate him. He is healthy, he kicks and made his mama almost violently sick in the beginning, made his ankles swell from little knobs under the almost papery skin to becoming nearly indiscernible, caused cravings for dakos, rough bread and snails and pastries, all of them too Greek for his mama to touch - even now, I can't fathom what Japan is thinking, is feeling for the man who shares this miracle.
I hope he can be turned to good thoughts, even if I haven't been able to reach him all these months and try to turn them. He can be a stubborn ******** sometimes, if my French can be pardoned; there have been times when I have had to nearly slap him out of his stupor, grab him by the shoulders and shake the blue funk away. It's all for lasta, for the little innocent one who could not have done anything wrong, to whom Japan is in debt, at least owes everything he can give, but he doesn't and I want to smack him.
Or I would.
I would if he wouldn't sleep so late into the afternoon after staying up until two with lasta kicking him until he was sure he'd bruise, a dark flower bleeding out under the perfect matte shade of his own skin prison - maybe i'd detest Japan if I didn't catch him murmuring as he stared down, the swell of himself growing daily ( i'd managed to get him to let me measure every week and the rate at which the infant was growing was astonishing, even to the doctors, a very healthy baby, very happy, they said. He barely smiled and it broke me ) and forever a reminder of what had happened, what he didn't know. Had he lost everything?
I stare at him and he doesn't see me, and I can see it written like graffiti on a blank wall, that he is sure everything has slipped so quickly from his fingers, like wet sand, only a fine dusting of grains left to cherish, to rub off and keep in a jar forever. Has he smashed it? I know we try to call Greece every day, or I do, and they keep me on the line for a few long minutes before I finally hang up, tired of the whole thing. But something, something that is hopeful and childish but the strongest part of me says that no, not all that Japan has is gone.
Because even if he broke the other beyond repair, beyond glue and tape and hope like a child who has broken a precious vase, I know that they will always return to each other like a magnet to iron. Forever and beyond always they are bound, whether in love or hate, it doesn't matter. I know, I see how Japan reacts to news about the Civil War, how he has told me he worries Greece will never know his son ( if it is a girl, I wonder what he will think, because she will be beautiful but also snowy and heartbreaking ), what he will think of his name - Haru, that's all he has now. Haru, for spring, for the beginning of something new, the end of drab and hopelessness and cold; for light, shining and eternal and penetrating the tight skin and making him dance his womb baby dance, especially at night; for distance, for clearing up. Haruto, Harushi, Haruta, Miharu, we can't decide, but I am honored that he considers my opinion, that we haven't decided, not he.
I squint at him, the sun coming in full and bright and beautiful, shining through the cream of the thick paper door. It looks like he has moved his face, to the sun to the wind to the sound of the birdsong, like something hope can cling to, something he can grab and distill and use to bind himself together again.
 men getting pregnant · Tue Nov 24, 2009 @ 06:06am · 1 Comments |
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