Meadow #4

The boy walked, eyes closed against the darkness, until time was a word that rolled around in his mind – nothing more than a collection of letters and sound. Where did it come from? Whose word was time? Who decided that four letters could encompass that without beginning or end?

“Open your eyes.”

The boy stopped, a single syllable in his mind. He recognized the voice.

“Open your eyes,” said his shadow.

The boy opened his eyes. The black paint of the forest had peeled away to reveal a meadow. The woods loomed all around, but the sky above was free of leaves. Stars filled every seam of that sky, and after the darkness of the woods their light made the boys eyes stream.

“You have come far.”

The boy looked down, his shadow clung to his feet. He was above once more.

“Where are we?” the boy asked.

“In the heart of the wood.”

The boy looked around. There was a small pond ahead of him, and grass below him – that was all, but it was somehow familiar.

“It is empty,” said the boy.

“We are here,” said his shadow.

“But we will leave.”

“Yes, we will, and what will be left in our passing?”

The boy looked to his shadow, the companion that had been lost to him within the darkness of the wood.

“Light,” he said. “When we are gone, the light will remain.”

“So it is not empty, simply open.”

The boy nodded, but said nothing. He walked to the pond upon the soles of his shadow. Together they left footprints in the dew wet grass.

It seemed there were more stars within the pond than filled the sky. It was small, infinitely smaller than the heavens, yet every winking light was held within its shores. The boys shadow disappeared beneath the stars and became his reflection. He stared into his own eyes. He didn’t recognize them. They weren’t the eyes of a boy.

“Has it been so long?” he said.

“Have you forgotten the meaningless of time?” asked his reflection.

“It is only meaningless outside of oneself.”

“You are never outside of yourself.”

“I was just now, in the woods,” the boy said. He could feel the trees pressing around the meadow, their leaves rustled with his words.

“Your gaze was turned inward.”

“My eyes may have been, but my ears were not. What of the voices? The shadows of the world?”

“You carry them. You have made them your own,” said his reflection. Stars wheeled above the boy’s head and beneath his feet – he felt like he could fall in any direction.

“I don’t want to carry them anymore,” he said.

“You have kept them in darkness for so long that they have ceased to be anything more than weight. Leave them here, shed them to the light and set them free.”

“How?” asked the boy.

“You were not within the wood, you were within yourself. This is not the heart of the wood…”

“It is my heart,” said the boy, and knew the truth of his words. The meadow was simple, yet reflective. It was everything it needed to be.

The boy knelt at the edge of the pond and dipped his hands into its waters. It was cold. He cupped his hands beneath the surface and held stars in his palms. A hush rose to consume the silence. The boy raised his hands, filled with water and stars. A single drop fell, the sound rippled through the meadow.

The boy lifted his hands and poured the water over his head – it was only cold so that he knew he was warm. so he could remember that he was alive for the first and last time. As the water ran across his brown and cheeks, it lifted the dust of the road and the years. It touched his lips and made them remember what it was to smile, it ran down his neck and beneath his shirt and carried with it to the earth the weight of the world.

He realized the miracle of being in time.

“Stand,” said his shadow. “This is the heart you have held yet forgotten. What you seek, its reflection, is still waiting to be found.”

The boy stood. The stars seemed closer, they brushed against his hair. On the soles of his shadow, he walked from the grove, leaving tracks in the dew wet grass.

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Tags:

boy, heart, pond, search, shadow, stars and woods