Wayfarer

by The Plebeian

XLVII

Another day or two of travelling have led him here, his third revisiting. The sky is filled with a clear bright light, and the area below caught in a slur of reflected colors. He knows the building well, and he pays it its special tribute. After all, this is where the glow first took flame. This is where their hearts became one, wholly broken and reformed. A small layer of snow covers the previous black of the plain roof, and a set of prints lines his way, having walked a few steps to get a full view of the streets below and the sky above. The city of Baltimare has always been a kind place to him, despite the bittersweet passage it reads to him now, as he sees his own reflection in several windows. Of course, he is reflected alone.

The wayfarer is quite tired, but this place has helped to see again. He can imagine the spot exactly where the canvas must have stood, after looking over her painting a few times. The night has turned a deeper black this time, though, cloaked by the winter air. He tires of his regrets of her. He merely wants to find a resolution, an answer. He has threatened to leave her here, too. Is not that moment forgotten immediately? He can feel a warmer embrace here, as if he may, by chance, meet her again here. Why should he not? He remembers where the first kiss had been sealed, the lovely happiness that had bloomed in that moment. He needs not forget that too, he supposes. The best memories may still be kept.

It is like the phoenix, he supposes. He does not dwell on his parents or the smoke of his childhood. He dwells on the phoenix, of his first journeys. Those were what defined him, not a hopeless upbringing. He can see it in her first painting with him, in the bright colors in the reflections, in the stars and the moon, which is now beginning to wax again. It has been her first bright beauty, the first she had been met with an incredible and bright light. He is happy to have brought that to her.

Here is also where he first met her grace, where he was broken over himself. It has been a much happier breaking, he thinks, but it is still a shattering of his mind and heart, that he could be forgiven with a mere dismissal, that they could lay down all of their imagined debts for each other. That is a beauty he can enjoy revisiting. What has he now to give away? He can give away his regret, certainly his fear. He will dismiss his guilt and ill memory, let himself be glad. After all, she still remains here, somewhere in the air, in the skies. She may still yet complete him. What else? He has not yet found the answer. It comes in time. He may give up his impatience here. Here he had lost his time, his constant counting and summing. What else may fall away in this purge? The shadow may leave too, he thinks. There is no more reason to despair. What is past is past, and only pushes the wayfarer on to the future, whether or not he attempts to resist. He may give up his berating once more. It never should have returned in the first place.

What may he take back? It is an odd thought, but he realizes he may yet have something to gain, not just to lose. He can retake his passions, his joy, for those he lost. He may regain his love for a new horizon. After all, he is a wayfarer once more, and that need not be depressing or hateful. He will take her peace with him, too. He realizes he has far more to gain here than he should lose. That has always been her way, after all. She always gives more than he can return; such is her grace. He can take that too. After all, it was his too, when they had been one. It still is his. He need only take it with him. He adopts also her selflessness, though he hopes he has always had that with him. Now there is merely the quest.

There is still no answer here, he knows, but he is much closer to it. He chases it, though he knows it will be a bittersweet discovery. It is for her that he travels now, and that is enough to keep him happy with every sunrise. It is still as if he can see those wonderful almond eyes when he wakes. He wonders if she has learned anything since she passed, if there is anything to learn in paradise, or if it is only on the earth that new wisdom may be found. It would be a dreary place, he thinks. There are still others to learn from, but he does not think there would be much to see in paradise. All would be too perfect, flawless to find beauty in it every time. He always hears that it is perfect, unchanging, a place of absolute happiness. To the wayfarer, that sounds far more like a hell than a hope. The idea simply does not attract the young, hungry heart. Perhaps there will be more to find another time, in another venue, but a real paradise, for the wayfarer, is here on earth, despite all of its ash and imperfection. Despite its childhoods and losses, it still proves a far better reality, in that it remains real. Still, he looks forward to rejoining her, some far-off day. That is one more thing he releases: the will to join her immediately, whatever the cost. She will wait as long as it takes him to find the answers he seeks. Whatever journey he goes on now, through earth and fire, he knows he will return one day to a calm hearth.