She sat with the river that day, listening to its steady hymn. The water knew her secrets; how she had loved him with both hands open, how she bent like willow branches to every wind of his desire. She gave, and she gave, and she gave, until even the cypress roots seemed to ache on her behalf.
It was one-sided. She knew that now. His love was smoke, hers was fire. He had never truly loved her, not the way her body, her prayers, her barefoot devotion had loved him. And yet… what she gave was real. She knew this, because the ache was real, the sting was real. And some stings do not fade; they settle into bone like river silt, carried always, heavy and holy.
Still, she whispered blessings on the wind. She hoped he was happy. She hoped he was healthy. She hoped the earth would cradle him the way she once did. Even as her chest remained hollowed by absence, she planted seeds of hope in soil where his roots would never grow.
It’s too heavy… to allow her self to believe his love had been true. That wound pulsed like a wasp sting that would not heal; a reminder etched into her, both curse and consecration. So she sat and she talked to the water, clutching her heart.
The river kept singing, the trees kept swaying, and she, broken-hearted but unbroken, let the earth teach her how to love again… this time for herself. She would choose to be alone, if ever given the opportunity to be half loved again, because that was a pain she refused to pass down generation to generation.
He will remain a dream… a childish wish …that his love would move heaven, hell, and earth to be by her side for the rest of their lives. But as he always said… “wish in one hand, spit in the other.”