I Almost Loved You

I wasn’t always a goddess. 

Wait. That’s a lie.

I was always a goddess, but I didn’t always feel like one. Mostly because I would feel.

I was happy when I was praised, and upset when I was disappointed. I was annoyed when no one gave me attention and pleased when I was given gifts. Were these real emotions? I’m not sure.

I don’t really feel now. You would say I am too far gone. It would be a lie. I’m not gone. I’m here. I will always be here. It is you who become gone, with your mortal bones and flesh. 

Maybe I feel content now. Maybe it’s peace. But that would bring calm, and I am not calm. I’m just not restless.

Still, when the mortals start their New Year I make myself the same promise I do every year. I will change. I will let myself love again. I will feel. I will live. I will live, I will live, I will live. It was my promise to you. One I sorely regret making. You thought I wouldn’t be able to move on from you when you died. Promise me, you told me. Mortals break their word. I wouldn’t know how to start. 

I will change. I will let myself love and feel and live.

For some time, I always do. I visit Earth more often, leaving the sea and sky in favor of human company. I surround myself with cooking and knitting and other silly hobbies. 

I am not meant for this. Why should I have to loop this yarn together over and over when I can have the end result with a snap of my fingers? Why should I labor over what spices, how much salt, how long this meat should cook? It would be the same with a wave of my hand. 

You once told me that the process was what made things special. You liked to think that everyone was special, in their own way. That because all mortals suffered different amounts of greed and selfishness, hate and grief, they were like stars, burning bright and brief. You didn’t like it when I told you that stars lived longer than you could fathom. They were not brief.

To make up for your displeasure, I told you, Everyone is a star, but only you are a sun. I said this because I knew it would please you, and I was right. I kept my mouth shut, even though the sun is a star, and ours is smaller than most. You smiled at me and said that I must be the moon. Our children thought you wise. I knew you as a fool. For if I am a moon, distant but luminous, a musician for the sea, how could you be the sun? You don’t scorch or burn. You don’t reach out into the distance and fill the cold with your warmth.

I met you at the ocean. I think you knew that I would never love anything as much as I loved the sea. Still, this love was not love. I don’t love the sea. Fear it. Respect it. Admire it, even idolize it, but never love it. Maybe what I’m trying to say is that I never loved the sea, but I still felt for it. I didn’t feel for you.

The sun lay over the horizon, almost lazy in the way it pulled the great blanket of sea and night over its warmth, letting in the night chill. A sea breeze played with your hair, and I watched you breathe in the salty smell. My hair did not move. Even the wind knew I was untouchable. For some reason, though, you did not. You alone were the exception. 

Overhead a flock of seagulls shrieked in conquest, attacking armies of fish. They swooped, a deadly dance. Other seabirds flocked the pale yellow sand, snatching bits of food from tourists. Colorful umbrellas and chairs dug into the sunlit (soon moonlight) sand, and it was thrown in the unfortunate eyes of those in the wind’s path. 

The sea. How do I describe the sea? I could say, roiling waves glittering like sapphires in the night. Colors any painter would be envious to have on their pallet. The ocean bubbled and foamed at the edges, tossed sea spray into the sky. The ocean danced a glorious dance to the tune of the moon. 

Nothing would do it justice. Any pretty picture I could paint would be a toddler attempting to speak. This was not art, something to be displayed and viewed. This was… 

This was the ocean. 

And you were not. 

You approached me and we pretended you were bold, but later on you would tell me I looked so serious and intimidating you put your hands behind your back so I wouldn’t see them shake. I’m still not sure if it was a joke.

That was another thing. You tried to be funny. Are you a banana? You’re appealing. Are you an artist? You draw me in. Cheesy, silly pick up lines that made me wince.

I’m afraid to say that I didn’t understand, at first. Eventually I learned to make a noise from my mouth, a huff and a snort and a smile. It pleased you, I think, like an accomplishment. Mortals don’t take much to be pleased. They live off of crumbs because they have never known a feast. 

When you told me you loved me, I did not say it back. I could explain now, if you were alive. I get it now. But do you not love the way a flower blooms? Its beauty and scent? Didn’t you always love the sunset? Didn’t you always love the ocean? Didn’t you always love me? But mortals have many meanings for love. 

Needless to say, I didn’t love you back. It was a shame, because if I could have loved anyone, it would be you. 

When you died I almost wept, but I didn’t know how, so I pressed my hands to my eyes and hunched my shoulders like I saw you do when your mother died. 

Your sister hugged me, hard, and whispered that you loved me. I know, I wanted to scream. I know that. That is not what I care about, what I care about is- 

But my thoughts ended there. 

Gods cannot love. How can we? We are nature itself. Nature doesn’t fall in love with you, you fall in love with nature. Nature is unforgiving in its beauty. You don’t blame it for not loving back. Why should we be any different? 

Still, nature is not timeless like we are. The rock wears down, the branches wither. The sea grows restless against the battered shore, and new patterns arrive. 

Gods cannot change. We are beauty trapped in a crystal ball that will never break. In that way, we are separate from all things. Why do you think it is us that mortals rely on? Emperors turn on their alliances sooner than they can make them. Apollo will never be prayed to for good weather. Poseidon will never be asked to heal. We are reliable. More so than mortals, anyway.

Gods cannot live. We never had life to start. Is a stone alive? Is a far-off constellation alive? Are we alive? No, no. No. 

You could say we don’t understand these things. Life, change. Love. I don’t understand how we could. How could I love you? You, as changing as the placement of the clouds. I would have to love a million different things to love al of you. Maybe I could have loved a little piece. Even that much would make you content. Still, I never fell in love with your pieces. There were simply too many, all reflecting each other’s flaws.

I never understood much, but least of all did I understand you. Your skin sagged more each season, and your passions were dull and halfhearted. Things you spent months, even years learning, I picked up faster than you could start to teach me. Mortals have such little life to begin with. It was almost taxing to see you waste so much of it in learning art and carving, swimming and sailing. The ocean and art. That was your life. I was your life. My life? I didn’t have a life. I didn’t live for anything, things were and I was. They didn’t live for me, until you. 

You changed things. But they did not change me. 

You thought I felt sad that I would never understand. But I didn’t really, did I? I think it was more of confusion, a child’s way of tilting their head and wondering why they could not have that cookie, that one. I want that one. But I did not want this one. I would say, I am full, but how can I be full when I have never known hunger? These are colors to a blind man. 

I have heard stories of gods and goddesses turning to stone, or plants, or a whisper in the wind. I think I would like to be the foam on a wave. When I spoke to you about it, you turned your head in a curious way that was almost annoyed and said, “You would be gone in a moment. Is that what you want?” I was surprised. I didn’t think of it the way you did. To him I would have a brief moment of life before death. To me? I would be. I would be and then I would not, but I would not really not be. The foam of a sea bubbles into the water and becomes it. I would go on, whether as rain or wave would be uncertain. I would be. Nothing is gone. Why can’t you understand? You and your foolish obsession with legacy.

You said you would be a great oak, towering and tall, strong and steady. I smiled, took you outside, and said, “Look at all these oaks. You think they care about being great?”

But this was not enough for you. “You think people care about them and their greatness?” My voice was sharper now. Why can’t you understand? You never understand. I never understand. What is there to understand?

You frowned and told me I had a marvelous way of simplifying things, but you did not mention the way you had never spared an oak a second glance. I think you did not believe what you said. 

Oh, yes, I had a way of simplifying things, but it was not wonderful. Overtime, I think you hated me a little. My ageless beauty. I turned myself gray-looking for you so you would not look at me so uncertainly anymore, but I could not change my mind. 

When yours dulled mine stayed sharp as ever, and when your eyes clouded mine stayed clear. But the hair and skin? I could weave a charm for those things. I could pretend. 

Still, it was not meant to be. Does the beach wind change course if a man is in its path? Does its sand veer off, away from their eyes? I was a fool. Many times I have been a fool, but never have you been wise. We were two different species trying to learn the other’s way of life, but while you can teach a dog to react to some human words, you can’t teach them to speak. You can’t learn to bark. 

One day I will walk out to sea and let myself join the waters. One day I will be foam on a wave and salt on the breeze. Something of the sort has happened to you. You are in the flowers and weeds that feed off of the nutrients of your dead body. You are in the dirt I walk and in the air I breathe. You will linger. Maybe that would be enough for you. To be, even if it’s not being great. Even though you were never a star.