Joie de Vie

I guess she really needs me.

Most people don’t, or they fumble me with frightful ease, and that’s sad. Because I’m boundless, and today, she’s the job.

A loop of ceramic ebony beads encircles the wearer's wrist.

She traces a featherlight fingertip on the underside of me, as if she plucked another Memory from the next room. A knuckle glides over my torso, on the way to its lofty, sallow destination. The pond just above me remains empty today, a good thing.

She caresses my face, and her endless vigil bathes me in tangerine and violet—two of my favorite hues-but I make do.

He was such a good one, dribbling pearls to bedew this beautiful haven for creatures, small and tall.

I arrived with a lily, dew-flecked and resplendent, from the windowbox, nestled in his quivering palm. She caressed my wings, and the briefest of thanks dripped from lips screwed up in a bewildered half-smile.

Yet, I yearned to become the real thing, ready to sniff every rose and violet, and dazzle when I swooped through the glorious expanse.

Unworn and awaiting my call to action, I longed to bask in the warmth of soft skin, energized by the steady adagio of a grateful heart for a compliment about my singularity.

It's been a challenge to elicit that grin again, but I’m confident I can make it happen.

Eyes downcast and shadowed, she suffered through reminders to remember only good days, here in this garden, and their ivy-covered cottage. As if salvaging the pieces of a shattered soul was as simple as replaying scenes from a well-loved film.

At least the worst of had ended. I thought the relatives would never leave, stone-faced and hushed, with the little ones, muted pitter-patter of their miniature Mary Janes and Oxfords on the steps.

After polite nods gave way to graceful exits, I caught a glimpse of him, draped over the cherrywood rocker, coated in a layer of lace-webbed dust for the baby, just above her bowed head, a hand hovered above her ice-cold skin.

I knew what was coming, before the day after it happened.

She slipped on fine-curb chain the morning of his service, pre-activation. I’d overheard one of the most respected elders, fragile and rich in wisdom and loss., a gravelly reminder to a few of my sibilings about the oldest of us, Grief, evergreen and unstoppable, keenly knit in a battered heart.

I didn’t understand what they meant. Be who you are, fill them, so they know the depth of you in their souls.

I was lost, and I wanted to be another forgettable charm. If I couldn’t be a real one, a flawless dasher, its wings a perfect match to the lavender blue bouquet from her sweet elderly neighbor, I wanted none of this. I longed for attention and adoration, like a stunning, lifeless stone.

But I’m not.

So, I rest here, a weak influence, unable to will her to plant those lovely forget-me-nots, amongst the other flowers he grew. Anything to make herself happy again, the way he wanted-proof of life, and his love.

Then again, maybe she thinks it’ll hurt too much. But the pain is the evidence, and the reward, if she’ll keep me here.

I caught my reflection in the stained glass window, as she led the procession into the sun-dappled afternoon. I’m not Pride(ful)—he’s the black sheep of the family. But I belong here, and we'll make a breath-taking team, this widow and me.

Yet, this is what they don’t understand.

It’s different, but I’m always here.

And it's the same for my sibs. Just because we exist in an alternate, or, what do they call it-realm, sphere, form? Sheesh, I don’t know. Anyway, we've come because they don't believe anymore, in any of us.

The world became faster, and so cold, in no time. Take a pill. Buy this juice. Lose weight overnight, and you'll sleep like you did when you were an innocent. Look younger.

Feel happier, after just one dose.

Quick fixes for what was never broken, or, what was meant to happen. One of the Activation Elders also spoke of ancient civilizations, scores of ancestors who survived because the cures for their ailments existed in the flora of their homeland. It's how we became who we are.

The power to heal lies within. Gloom and struggle set the stage, and they're not always the whole story, or the end.

My siblings, Grief, Love, Desire, are immeasurable, essential, and survivable.

I'm proof of that, because I'm the best of all of us.

But she doesn't want to feel anything now, so this is gonna be tough. I thought I’d probably be better off on some guileless pre-teen girl, or some seen-it-all grandma, someone who’s still thrilled to own me. A gentle embrace, an influx of elation, as I spread, well, you know, my raison d’ȇtre.

I wait, and then a lucky break. I sink into that gorgeous notch, a serene, silken landing. I swirl and flutter under her ministrations. A fingertip catches my showstopper wing, with this red-gold veneer, and light illuminates me in all the right places, a gift that makes me, well, me.

I wish she’d fold a hand around me, just for a millisecond, to feel how she did on their walks in the woods, how he beamed when the kicks rattled his fingertips and echoed through his enraptured heart.

The ones like her almost never do that. They give into one of those other black sheep sisters of mine, like Fear, or my distant cousin, Despair. They subsist on a steady diet of sleepless nights and missed connections, of passionless sighs and perfunctory conversations.

The youngest ones, who've lost infants and unborn, wear their necklaces of precious diamonds and emeralds, and they thrive, a little. The wearers sparkle before they discard us, frustrated with a short-lived recovery of forced friendships and minor dalliances that fades into our long-suffering sibling, Indifference.

The damaged, depleted charms are reactivated and dispatched again, irreplaceable warriors in the battle to remake this world with soul-searing emotion.

Rosary now in her lap, my wearer sweeps a finger across an iridescent wing, another chance to reconnect.

Then, the pond refills, just south of the curve of her luscious lip. Another Memory of him resurfaces, one of my side effects. She hugs the cloak, redraping her with Kindness and Devotion.

I'll remain within this pair, steadfast and infinite, when they think I’ve vanished, as long as she holds onto us, with every other good thing that never dies.