[twwm] copper and moths: a held memory - polaris

My paws lead me through the doorway as I continue on, full of curiosity at this strange place. The water may be a home that I am more comfortable in, but this warm-walled room of cherry wood and elegant patterns scrawled across the walls and floors is just as welcoming as any body of water.
The path calls me forward, like there is some invisible horse-haired violin bow playing across strings that connect to my heart. Water trickles alongside me on my left and right, and I stop in my tracks to watch it. Crystal-clear, it follows a path it has followed for eons, wearing an almost indecipherable groove into the smooth stone below it, without sound. There is no happy burble, no little laugh or giggle of falling droplets, bringing life somewhere new.
It is as empty and hallowed as a church hall, the two lines of water like two columns of abandoned pews. I follow their flickering as it bounces across the walls from unseen light sources, and watch as scenes play across the bronze and dark wood. Esk chase each other in friendly fights, playing games of hide and seek behind shadowy trees and bushes that push their way up and along the walls with the movement of the flowing water.
I follow the trickle as it elevates the esks and their games along the geometric patterns of leafy, fern and moss decorated wood. A tall, sloping neck stretches away into the distance, a bright shining orb above her forehead illuming her features as she leads a parade around and around, beckoning me closer. The twin trickles of water flow down a steeper and steeper course, and I begin to canter down the hill myself, enraptured by the view of the shadowy esks.
It seems like they are bringing me to someplace new, and I trust them to keep me safe. More and more figures join behind, the smaller ones tripping over themselves as they struggle to keep up with Mother, 000. The bigger esks stride, picking up some tiny friends, helping them to keep in line with the parade. Their forms dissolve a little as the water trips over a few pebbles in their smooth course, wisps echoing behind as they prance.
They seem to get farther away from me, leaving me behind, or leading me? A parade of saints like monks in the streets, searching for people to help, dipping their long, gentle necks to help others climb aboard, following 000, and I am pushing myself faster along the stone and slipping slightly on the water-slicked path.
There is nothing under my paws when I take my next flying step, and I careen into water - stopping solidly on its surface. The water ripples back towards me, throwing me off balance, and I look pleasingly up at the walls, to see the shadow of Mother staring down at me. She nods, assured, and with a flash is gone. I am alone standing on the surface of a pool that will not let me into its comforting embrace.
The room is darkened now without the company of my saints, and a large statue sits, shaped like a wise old frog. Moss eats its way into the cracks of the stone, tracing invisible veins that only it can find. A light begins to flicker up from somewhere in the depths, and it pulses, wavering through the pressure and surface tension.
I hesitate. Something here wants me down there - and yet something is keeping me away from it. Like a child in a confessional booth, I am tempted to open the small door separating whatever is on the other side, to realize the majesty of what lies behind my eyelids and own comprehension.
The water welcomes me as I dive in, and just like the beginning of my adventure, I make a desperate grab for the light that beckons me deeply, cobwebbed somewhere behind closet doors of my soul. It brings me in deeper, and my vision hazes over at the edges - and I am lost.
Suddenly She is there, and She is laughing and her hands are tangled in my hair. We are exchanging playful kisses, tickling Her skin with my salt and pepper mane whenever I lean in to brush my lips over Her knuckles, Her nose, Her shoulders.
I settle in next to Her, my eyes closed and a happy smile curling my lips. Her head rests in the dip of my collarbone and arm, copper hair glinting with a faint candlelight. Her eyes are happy, I know it, brown like the clay of the earth and sparkling with golden mica flakes. I love Her, my light, my breathing sun that illuminates my mornings and nights.
I hold Her, and bury my face in the crook of Her neck. She is the little god of my dusks and dawns, and I pull the blankets over us softly. She made this blanket, stitched with moths and wolves, running hard to catch the moon that they called for, hot breath streaming from open mouths. "Skiá," I breathe softly, right into the shell of her ear. It sounds like a prayer, and she curls tightly into me, hugging me close.
Somewhere in my heart I know that this is not real, will never be real again, but I can't stop myself from focusing on every part of this memory. Her hair bounces back as I card my fingers through it, gentle with the strands of bronzed sunlight. She smells of wood smoke, cinnamon, and vanilla.
Her eyes are shut so gently, laugh lines and crow's feet on her face, showing her age. The memory is fading from me now, the edges blurred and twisting. I want to grab for the woman I hold so close, but I feel the current dragging me away.
There's only one way forward, but it hurts just as much as it did back then to let her go. "Skiá," I say again. "Skiá."
And I am standing, alone, in a hallway of arched doorways and lush overgrowth.