Elethean
Legacy Name: Elethean

She's going to be someone. You can tell by the way she stands, how she holds her head, the look in her eyes, that sort of soft little crooked smile. She's going to be the kind of person that reinvents an entire genre, someone that manages to show you something old in a way that makes it brand new and beautiful. That person on the street that lets off this light, emits this sort of otherworldly glow that attracts all sorts of other amazing people, that's who she's going to be. But not yet. She's got this idea that she's in a sort of chrysalis, this cocoon she needs to tear herself out of in order to be who and what she wants. I keep trying to say, that's not how it is; butterflies don't claw their way out, they wait and let things happen in their own time. They're in no hurry, no rush. But she doesn't listen; no one ever does.

I've been in love with her since we were kids, the first one to realize exactly what she could be. We spent hours on end together, just talking and telling each other stories, from when we were six. She was a hypnotist, each word another tick of the pendulum keeping me transfixed. Her stories were tapestries where every small stitch worked into something further on and created an astonishing image. There were faeries, witches, trials and stillborn children, enchantments and tears and sunsets. I felt trapped, caught up in some sort of net woven of intricately tooled sentences, unable to think clearly. The stories were so intimate, like we were making love through words; it didn't even matter to me that she had eyes for other boys. She never shared the stories with anyone else so I didn't feel like I needed to worry. I knew that eventually she would see me as more, something worthy. It didn't bother me when she dated other guys, because I knew I had time; I even went out a little myself. But for me it felt like practice, getting ready for when we finally got together, I'd be everything she could ever want in a lover, a partner.

The biggest flaw in my plan is me; I'm nothing extraordinary. I can't tell stories like her or make the things she can: dream catchers, origami, watercolours, all sorts of things. She's like some sort of creative goddess, churning out all this intense stuff. All I can do is complicated math and gardening; I have a mean green thumb. I think that's the only thing she's ever been jealous of, the way my flowers grow. My backyard has become a jungle of towering roses in every hue of the sky, be it sunrise or set. The back porch is covered in tendrils of jasmine, the rest of the space held by forget-me-nots, lily of the valley, violets, daphne, irises and stargazer lilies. Everything is a bit bigger and more vibrant than the store-bought varieties they came from. I don't know exactly how it works since I don't use chemicals, but she claims they're feeding off my aura. She told me once, back in our favorite place between the baby's breath and the nigella, that she thought they were a manifestation of my soul, of what I am inside myself that never comes out. It has to come out somehow, she said, so she thought it bled into my dreams and the plants harvest them like sunlight. We were both pretty drunk at the time but afterward she made me a dreamcatcher out of a thorny rose stem and hung it above my bed with the others. After awhile it got pretty gross looking but I kept it anyway, in its own box in the closet; I think she thinks I threw it away.

I live in this little old house that smells like grandmothers and flowers. She calls it a granny house because of the decorations: lace throws over the tables, old silver flatware in the drawers, antique plates and paintings hung on the walls, the antique furniture everywhere and the green linen curtains; I think they give the house a pleasant glow. She teases me about trying to live a faerytale, but the truth is it's the other way around. She only buys vintage and organic, believes in spirits and leaves offerings of honey and milk on her windowsills. She's always barefoot, flowers in her hair; she has this unreal sort of innocence and purity like a cloud around her. She wants to be a poem, a perfect seashell, a butterfly; that takes her to the cocoon predicament. She always says, 'Home is where the heart is,' like some sort of charm. It makes me love her more, but I'm also worried; what happens if her heart ends up somewhere else? I used to feel like I had all the time in the world, but not lately.

~~~

She's started talking about traveling, taking her bare feet to the cobblestones of Rome, the waterways of Venice. Perhaps, she says, she'll make her honey offerings in India or Tibet, tell her stories to birds of paradise in Indonesia. I don't want her to leave me, all alone in my ivy covered cottage to be eaten alive by my hungry, ogreish roses. When she tells me excitedly that she is moving to Thailand next month my stomach falls so far it disappears and I cannot eat for a week. She is concerned but determined as she pours green tea down my throat and checks my temperature; I know I am being horribly immature but I can't seem to help myself. She sings me Joni Mitchell songs and makes me miso soup while I stare at her, trying desperately to will her to stay but knowing it's no use. She is leaving me.

~~~

It is the last night before she leaves and she is at my house. We make couscous with fresh mint and sit in the shade of my monstrous roses, sipping gin and tonics. We laugh and talk about stupid things we did when we were younger, the dreams we had. It is a beautiful evening but the entire time I feel like crying. As she is pulling on her coat I realize that this may be my last chance, the end of my endless time and I make my move. But she is quicker; perhaps while I was trying to will her to stay I telegraphed something else. Perhaps I told her silently every day but however it happened, she knows. Her fingers are pressed gently to my lips, stopping me in my tracks. And my heart spasms as I see the sweet, sad smile creep onto her lips and she says, oh so softly, "You are not my home." She draws away and smiles once more, regret plain in her eyes, and then she is gone and I am alone in an old woman's house.

~~~

I do not hear from her for a week, and then it is only a voice on the answering machine telling me she has gotten settled safely but she probably won't be in touch very much. I am on auto-pilot for weeks, unable to fill my time. In the end I spend hours a day making dreamcatchers and I hope I can use them to keep the dreams out. But instead soon I am dreaming of her every night. I write them in my dream journal but leave out that they are about her. I watch her write, eat, go for walks; I see her flirting, weeping, laughing. I try seeing a therapist but he cannot tell me anything I do not already know. In the end I take to sleeping in the garden, under the willow with the bells tied to its branches. I still dream of her, but that ends when I begin to take the pills. I feel abused and resentful but I begin to miss her face. I move the dreamcatchers out to the willow and reclaim my bedroom when it gets colder; I am still taking the pills.

~~~

It is a year later and I have only received two letters, a postcard and a Christmas card. For my birthday she sends me a huge pressed butterfly. I now sell the flowers I grow to private gardens and spend my free time avoiding people and reading. I slowly get to know Eva, a woman I sell to fairly often and she tells me I sleep too much. She thinks I take the pills to sleep and I don't correct her. She starts calling more often and comes over for dinner a couple of times. The last time we drink too much and I start babbling; the next morning I do not even remember what we ate. She stops calling but a month later I get a package. It is a book of poems and illustrations but I am not in the mood when it arrives; I toss it on the floor of my bedroom.

~~~

Three months later I dream of her for the first time since I began taking the pills. She is smiling and dancing in the forest, surrounded by children. A cloud of butterflies descends on her and when they disperse she is gone. I awaken when I fall off the bed. Something jabs me and I reach down to find Eva's book. For the first time I notice a page is marked. Flicking on the lamp I begin to read and by the time I am done I am shaking so hard I feel like I am going to vomit. The marked pages are a watercolour and a poem facing each other, the picture of a face made of sky-coloured roses. But it is the poem that gets me. It is about a man with vines for legs and a belly full of fireflies, and blossoms for a torso. In his chest is a birdcage with a miniature sun burning inside, backlighting the petals. It describes his passionate love for a wicker girl with a dreamcatcher-body but how his light burns her up and she disappears into a wisp of white smoke. I don't even need to check who the author is before I tuck the book under the pillow and curl back up, hugging myself. I am overwhelmed by confusion, warmth and a renewed sense of loneliness. I feel as If she has reached out to me only to pull away again; did she send me the dreams? I ease back into sleep.

The weeks following are easier for me and I begin to leave the house more. I take a job as a waiter at a local vegan cafe and enjoy meeting the new people; I feel somehow empowered, as though that poem allowed me to be seen once again. The cafe is where I run into Eva again and though I am excited to see her and thank her profusely for the book she is cool towards me; I do not blame her and when she leaves I do not expect to see her here again.

~~~

It has been five years since she left for Thailand when I get the phone call: she is coming home. I hadn't heard anything for the last six months so I am surprised at the contact, but I make my voice as friendly as possible. She sounds older, more tired, but with the same excitement; she tells me she would love to have dinner and see the granny house. I bite back resentment over someone I haven't heard from in months inviting themselves over to my house and ask if Thursday would work. It's a plan and I start thinking of the menu. In the end I decide on exactly what we ate the last time I saw her, minus the gin. When she knocks on my door I hardly recognize her; she is very tan and her hair is long and in dreadlocks down her back. There are tattoos of butterflies on her shoulder blades and a sparrow on her ankle. A broad smile spreads across her face and then she is hugging me; I must have missed the "Hello, how are you?" and pre-hug eye contact to ask for permission. I am bitter, I admit. I am also thinner, more angular: she has gained weight. She shows herself in, chatting animatedly about how amazing her life has been and all the beautiful people she has met. We take our plates out into the yard where she stops for a moment at the sight of the willow but regains her composure after I pass her, not breaking stride, and sit under the tree. She sits next to me, still talking and requiring no response. I eat in silence.

Eventually she falls quiet as well, mostly so she can eat and I slowly begin to tell her about selling my flowers, meeting Eva and working at the cafe. She pauses when I mention Eva but only for a moment. When she is done eating she tells me about the books she has had published and the ones she is about to send out; I smile and ask her what the newest one is about. She stops for a moment and stares at me; "You mean you don't know?" I chuckle, slightly irritated, and ask how I would know. I am surprised when I see a vague look of hurt pass across her features before she shakes her head slightly and then grins. "Did you read my other books?" I nod and say I read a little of one; this time the disappointment is more pronounced and I am beginning to feel guilty. She asks which one and I go in to grab it; when I return she is smelling the flowers with an odd expression on her face. The roses are different from when she was last here, less sunsets and more pale blues and bone-colours. She looks to me with troubled eyes;"It smells like tears." I smile and hand her the book and explain that Eva dog-eared it for me. She frowns slightly before smiling crookedly; "I'm glad she recognized you; she must be a special woman." I shrug and explain that we don't really talk much anymore. She flips through the book, the binding crackling as if it were brand new. I can't remember the rationale for not reading the rest of the book but I hope it was good. She looks up at me, all seriousness, and lowers the book. "Would it make a difference if I told you I needed to leave where I belonged to figure out where it was?" I raise my eyebrows but remain silent, waiting. She takes a deep breath and just holds it for a moment before it comes out in a gust and the tears begin and once again she is clinging to me. I hold very still for a moment before I finally move to embrace her, which is when it really starts; she soaks the front of my shirt. In the tears there is mumbling about loneliness and mistakes before she draws away and places a manuscript in my hands; "Read it and tell me what you think, alright?" I nod and she is gone again.

~~~

I sit beneath the willow tree and begin to read; it isn't long before I realize it has a companion text. I devour her book before retreating inside to write notes on mine and tie them together. I drop them in the box of the apartment she is staying at but leave without ringing the bell. I get in my car and drive until I reach the ocean, the first time I've left the city in five years. I feel as though I have taken a load off my chest and I can finally breathe again. I arrive back that same night and collapse beneath the willow, a euphoric smile still on my face. I know now that I really do have all the time in the world, and this time I won't waste it.