Her Only Weapon

I can remember, right down to the very second, when the world exploded.

There was the clinking of a teaspoon against a delicate china cup, the sun streaming in from the kitchen windows, creating a warm pathway for dancing dust. The small faded blue sugar bowel sitting precariously on the counter edge and I could hear the soft familiar cheep of a mocking bird outside.

She whirled around just as gust of wind surged through the window, making the old glass rattle and her bright yellow dress billow outward.

“I made tea!” She proclaimed, brandishing the small cup like trophy, narrowly avoiding critical spillage.

Her smile was completely, unrelentingly crooked. Her eyes a mischievous wicked green, they sized me up, drinking in all of me, searching my soul for signs of potential fun to be had. I was terrified she wouldn’t find any. Had my new, incredibly intrusive neighbour, chosen that moment to turn back around, a slight glint of disappointment in those cat-green eyes, I don’t know that I ever would have recovered.

My world had been made of sunburn and golden farmland and fat ants crawling into the earth’s dry cracks. After that moment, after that cup of tea, it was only her. In all the world, in every moment there was only her. She reminded me of the sun, with forever bare feet and a determination to reach the top of every tree we climbed. We spent hours looking for mockingbirds…she always spotted them first. I used to think they were looking for her too, trying to learn how to mimic her wild giggle. She could not dance or sing, but when she swirled around bonfires, cheap golden bracelets jingling, the stars moved closer and the trees bent toward her. It felt as though everything I had ever known was smiling at this strange, beautiful woman who had so brazenly stolen my universe, with a cup of tea as her only weapon.

I’m not sure why she married me, I decided not to question it, in case I was dreaming. Our days merged into years like paint, and though I loved her as much as a person can love anything, and our farm was thriving through every golden afternoon, there was a blank space on the canvas. Sometimes I would find her crying, and I knew she was watching ghost children run through golden wheat. Our bed was always warm and full of love, but sometimes, late at night I could feel a small cold gap between us, about the size of a baby.

I don’t know what I was doing before I saw the smoke. I just remember running. The flames were already higher than my head and a little girl stood outside the wreckage. She was the daughter of Charlie, a harvester. I dropped to a crouch beside her.

“Are you hurt?”

She stayed silent, her gaze never leaving the hut. I swallowed nervously,

“Where’s your dad?” I asked, not knowing if I wanted an answer.

She lifted an arm, pointing wordlessly toward the fire. My stomach twisted and I reached out to grab her hand. Then I noticed them, two jingling bracelets hanging awkwardly from her small wrist.

“She saved you.” I croaked, feeling my body go cold.

The girl nodded.

“Is she…”

The sentence disintegrated on my tongue. Once again, the little girl lifted an arm, and pointed toward the flames. We stood, watching the hut burn. Two misplaced souls, staring at the worlds we had lost, and though I strained my ears, the mockingbirds were silent.

We did not speak. I took her home, made tea neither of us could drink, and we did not speak. For months it was like this. I pretended not to notice the way she ate morsels of her food. Every morning she pretended not to have heard my bone-wracking sobs the night before. We were ghosts. Haunted by our dead. The ones who lived, but were not alive. It seemed absurd, that my heart beat when hers did not. It was ludicrous that I was left with the one thing she wanted in the world, but had no idea how to handle it.

It was summer when it happened. I found her climbing a tree. She was stuck, and at first, panic I had never felt before coursed through me. I flew up to her and carefully set her feet on a thicker branch, breathing out a puff of relief. Her brown eyes searched mine, and slowly I asked,

“should we climb higher? Together?”

A small smile pulled at her lips and she nodded. We made it to the top, and we stared down wordlessly at the golden world we shared, the memories of our loved ones playing out before us as we watched in silence. It must have been more than an hour before she spoke,

“Can we go home now?”

I nodded, and held out a hand to begin helping her down again.

“Yes, it’s lunch time anyway.”

Her little hand slipped into mine and I watched her like a hawk as she moved onto another branch, silent relief filling me when her filthy feet found safety.

“Can we have sandwiches?”

I nodded again, the force of my feet causing the earth to wheeze out a small cloud of dust as I landed back on the ground. I lifted up my arms, wrapping my hands around her and setting her down next to me.

“Can we have them with tea?”

I felt it then, a spark of life throbbing in my chest, it was dim and faded but the shock of it almost knocked me off balance. A ghost remembering the feeling of a heartbeat.

“Yes.” I whispered, “Yes we can have tea.”

We did the same thing the next day, and the next. She runs around now, always with bare feet, always with a full stomach. Sometimes when we go walking, I will watch as she squeals at the sight of a perfect tree. We will climb all the way to the top, she will spot a mockingbird and for a moment, we will look down, watching our ghosts. And then, then it will be time to turn away, to amble back home, to put on the kettle. We will sit in the kitchen as the sun streams in, we will sip our tea and we will feel alive again.