Water Spirit

I am the one you may say anything to.
I assure you, I will understand.
Feelings, emotions—they are neither right nor wrong.
They cannot be assigned a value.
Feelings, are.
. . . let it burn through you, . . .
—Circenn Brodie from A Highlanders Touch
by Karen Marie Moning

The park was empty, the sidewalks puddled, an advertisement booth dripping lonely tears onto a heartless surface. Three people walked in the afternoon drizzle through the grassy marsh. Victoria. Troy. Tiara.

—Somewhere at night before today. . . .
. . . from behind the tiered water fountain, double doors beckoned the running feet; they didn’t pound mud on or trace water on cement from fresh marshy grass; the water guiding to, guiding around, guiding through large wooden doors trimmed in brass and gold; swinging easily, effortlessly with a touch of fingertips. An aroma of incense and wax filled nostrils as feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water; fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; another fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; onto a platform vacant and silent, doorways staring, a showcase upholding a golden cross draped in purple silk with a crown of rubies, sapphires, and jades set in thorns. The feet ran without confessing onto the catwalk where a sun paved striped path of light and heat touched down; running and panting to a single door, a single room protruding the whole structure ten steps up; a room cushioned in red and marked by a massive wooden cross; knees falling, crumbling . . .

   Tiara tipped-toed through the new marsh, the flooded grass rocking, she feeling saturated like the Mother Earth, saturated with emotions she could not display, her spirit over filled in the want of a love she may never regain. Her smoky chemise dress formed to her body as the water weighted the hem and a breeze touched her skin, the rolling waves lapping at her ankles, the coolness bringing the child in her to the surface.
   Troy chased Tiara . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
   . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .

      . . . , his first legal wife, her steps echoing the prance of a doe. Victoria grabbed his wrist—his second legal wife—grabbed his waist, the fun slowly escaping in front of him. Victoria whined that her feet were cold, shaking her feet like a cat, displacing the goo with each lift of her foot, the mush between her toes sickening her; he sighed out loud and internally yelled Let go!
   Tiara, on the sidewalk, circled a puddle with her pointed toe and dragged it through the middle, creating, for a brief moment, a dry line of two hearts interlocked that quickly flooded again, like her heart that ached for his touch, knowing that she couldn’t advance, knowing that her physically spiraling body cried for him, the world circling down upon her as a dream, the soiled sky changing with each spin, she falling into nothingness, of an earth absorbed by tears.
   Her face uplifted—to hide it—in the downpour, it scouring her eyes to close tight with thunder spilling sourness of a lingering destruction into her mouth.
   Troy grabbed Tiara’s spin, pulled her to him, guiding her to a booth, folding his lips around her moist neck, moving up her chin, her moaning encouraging him, suckling her lower lip, her breath stroking his cheek as she opened her mouth, he advancing. . . .
   The much wanted kiss fell away; see opening her eyes to see Victoria wrap arms around a neck of promises made five years ago, Victoria’s lips filling the space Tiara once filled.
   Her hand slipping . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
    . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .
    . . . falling to his knees in the mud, wiping the falling drops from her face, the highway above sang about tomorrow, tomorrow and promises, promises . . .

   . . . from him; now running from Troy was the creamy, smooth, soft dark hair soaked and clinging to the drenched chemise that clung to the body, and his want and need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, so . . . alive. . . . To keep her always.
   Tiara drifted to the bells, the chill of the wind scurrying her off, walking her poetically atop of the pooled cement, sensing danger, a danger that would fold her soul in, seal it tight, fleeing as an allusive doe, for she may become the victim, jumping spans of marshy grass, feet slicing the swells that greeted them as they paced back down, her marks untraceable.
   Fear chased her steps, echoed her, trudged after her, eyes escaping through the drizzle to one place that called out sanctuary.
   Troy’s fear loose . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
    . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .
    . . . falling to his knees in the mud, wiping the falling drops from her face, the highway above sang about tomorrow, tomorrow and promises, promises . . .
    . . . she wouldn’t wake, she may never wake he could hear them say as he was pulled up the embankment; never wake to never die . . . lying in tubes and metal forever . . .

      . . . , his heart racing with her, his mind squeezing Victoria into a bubble, his spirit physically climbing out of the valley of Victoria, seeing the fine footmarks fade before him. His spirit bucked and so did his body, ejecting Victoria to the air and from him, his feet taken over by a spirit he knew not as want and need, but as the nourishment of purification that only could be quenched by his love, his love, Tiara. Blasphemous snarls dragged on the cuff of his heels, while his spirit lifted him in leaps across the glistening ground of pavement and grass.
   Tiara felt the spirit of this day. So fresh. So clear. No matter the disaster. She had to follow the spirit, and her feet knew how to listen. If he had not forgotten, he would as well.
    Open doors beckoned at the steepled-gateway, the stairway beyond called, the Mary pressed her on with tender eyes, Tiara’s heart showing through her chemise, speaking through her tears; for a moment she thought she heard Troy call out, but she would not turn, could not turn, for her path would not allow her to look back.

          . . . from behind the tiered water fountain, double doors beckoned two sets of running feet; neither pounded mud on or traced water on cement from fresh marshy grass; the water guiding to, guiding around, guiding through large wooden doors trimmed in brass and gold; swinging easily, effortlessly with touches of fingertips. An aroma of incense and wax filled nostrils as feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water, as second feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water, fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; another fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; onto a platform vacant and silent, doorways staring, a showcase upholding a golden cross draped in purple silk with a crown of rubies, sapphires, and jades set in thorns. First feet confess, second feet confess, before running and panting to a single door, a single room protruding the whole structure ten steps up, a room cushioned in red and marked by a massive wooden cross; knees falling and knees falling, crumbling and crumbling more, hands folding and folding and folding within and folding around and around, squeezing gently and more gently, forgiving and forever for . .