Ritual
“I’m tired.” The edge of her words snags at my throat. I fold her, locket and loved, against my wanting collar. The struck way she curls into my arms fills me with a dull ache. I remember a time when things were different for us. The world had opened her arms to us with promise and praise. Our victory over the angel of death felt so fresh and starry-eyed. Our twice-named birthdays sang with everything we could still have, and our dreams romped in the streets like the end of a long, long war. She starts to weep silently. I can only tell because of her little quivers; the damp, seeping warmth on the fabric of my shirtfront.
“One day it will be different,” I start. The sudden sound of my voice jolts us both into a different stage of our grieving. She holds her breath for a moment as she waits for me to go on, as if worried she won’t hear me. As if she hasn’t heard this dozens of times in my voice.
“One day this world will hold us. There will be a place in this world made for us. We will be able to sing and dance without fear. One day we will walk in the park with nothing to come for us. One day we will know peace.”
She knows the shape of this prayer. The rhyme and rhythm of it. Even to me it feels derisive now, condescending, cruel. Her breath hitches, and she flinches, as if the old hopes might find the most direct way into her heart, with no concern for the bones and tissue in the way. Then the sobbing starts.
It’s too late now, of course. The ritual has begun. We have to see it through to the end. No matter how much it hurts.
“One day, the sky will open up for us, and heaven will be swallowed by a great black expanse.”
“One day the stars will be smothered and die one by one, and the only light in this world will come from our hearts.” She mutters the response partly out of habit, mostly out of the comfort of a familiar recitation.
“One day this world will be darker than sleep.”
“One day this dark will reveal the contents of our souls.”
“One day we will be able to see and be seen.”
“One day it won’t hurt.”
We’re getting into it now. The old magic works the way it’s meant to. Lines uncrease on her face. Tension uncurls from my shoulders. Scars turn pale and soft. Breath starts to come easier for us both.
“One day it will be safe.”
“One day it will be kind.”
“One day it will be gentle.”
We move on to the benediction, this part in unison.
“One day this world will love us back. Heaven is empty. The earth rots with death. I love you forever. Stay here with me.”
The healing magic does hurt. It hurts the way grief hurts when released. It hurts the way suffering exits the body through wounds. She grits her teeth, tears streaming down her cheeks, and we finish the ritual.
“We will never ever die.”
“We will never ever forgive them.”