Under The Eternal Blue

The Beginning

They used to call me Afro Queen. My girls. Oh I miss them. I miss the days in which I was still engrossed in the innocence of life.
Those days my skirts were too short and my propensity for danger was on an all time high.
Back when the people I grew up admiring were still alive. Age is beautiful but costly.
You see more than you intended and learn more than you preferred to. You grow up, and find love, or perhaps it finds you in some, terribly akward little man who promises you the world to come.
And in his eyes, oh his eyes tell you he can see it and all you need to do is take his hand and you can go with him.
You have no idea what he hopes to find but you know, you know? Right down to your feet, right down to your very soul you know that as long as you squeeze his hand, somehow, you'll get there.
Worn out from many detours perhaps, but you'll get there.
And along the way, he gives you the gift every little girl dreams about, a little girl of your own, or boy. I always wanted a girl so I didn't know if the joy would be the same when he was born, you know.
On that day though, as I held his tiny little head, I could see us. Him and I. Our fragile parts mixed together with our strongest traits in the boy's little eyes.

'Mama, what is love?' The first real question my little boy asked me. My little boy.

'Baby, love is...'

It was then I realised I hadn't thought about a word I had used probably more times than I used the ladies room.
I was a poetess you see and 'love' was my muse. That was back before the Afro Queen had started a kingdom of her own. One I had to give up on so I could raise my little boy. Funny the things we give up for 'love.'

You see, not all of us have what it takes to chase our dreams relentlessly. The real world isn't that kind. But we all live in that place of wondrous prospects at some point in our lives.
It was then I was burdened with sharing my infatuations with a small akward audience that kept 'snapping' me on. 'Someday,' I thought, this akward audience would grow wings and fly me towards some amazing opportunity too great for me.

But alas! Here I am, searching for an answer appropriate enough to satisfy the curiosity of my 4 year old. For all my talk, I couldn't even come up with an answer to convince myself.

'Love, baby,' I smiled, 'is what made you.'

As I said before, 'love' was my muse. I had made an award winning statement in my mind and as he looked at me with wonder I was giving an acceptance speech.

'If your pops was still around he'd take you to see the love factory. It's where all the babies in the world come from,' his eyes coloured with longing as well as with a sad curiosity.

Embracing him, I broke down, 'You're a strong little dude you know that. Alot, no, none of the kids your age have half the heart you've got. 'Love' made you tougher than the rest of us,' I sobbed quietly.

Sniffing I continued, 'Don't ever let them tell you that 'love' is a feeling. It's not. It's a choice. It's a choice we make everyday to continue to intimately be a part of the lives of those around us. I chose to love you and choose to do so everyday of your life. And you know what, I love making that choice everyday as well.'

I had no idea why I was saying things a 4 year old probably wouldn't understand but I felt he had to hear these things.

'And when you're older and life makes you forget how much I love you and for some strange reason I'm not there, I want you to call me. Call me and... even if you can't because things are a little tight and I can't get you a phone just yet I still want you to know. To know that you are special.
That even if you meet bigger boys who say you're not, making you feel as weak as they do, I want you to know that love made you.
Even though it gets so bad you feel tempted to cut your wrists or jump off the edge of the school building... I want you to remember what love is. To open your palm. Right there in the centre. I want you to find your way back to me. To trace those lines across the galaxy of your memories and find me. I will remind you.
How I love every breath you take. How with each day I can't seem to stop loving you more and sometimes I love you so much that I wonder how deep love goes. Because i look at your eyes and your little button of a nose and it's all beautiful like a masterpiece artfully composed by all that is good and all that is lovely.
And granted, there shall be times I don't understand what you're going through just as there will be times I'm working out a few things that seem strange to you but still... my love remains. It's a choice I made that I enjoy making everyday. Days will come where we will yell, others where we will scream but no matter the day, no matter the hour, my love will remain. And...'

'Excuse me, ma'am,' I started to hear in the distance. 'Ma'am,' the voice went. 'Ma'am!' In an exasperated tone and above me stood a lady holding my boy's hand, trying to pull him away from me.

'Can you let go of my son?' She said sternly as someone who had been vexed vehemently for quite some time.

'I...,' being pulled away before I could say anything, the large man who did so apologized to the lady for the inconvenience. I pushed him off. Walking with longing towards my son who was being dragged away.
He pulled me back once more and held me so tight it had to be inappropriate. 'My son!' I cried but this giant of Mordor kept insisting I was delusional. Me! Delusional!? Me. Delusional. 'Me? Delusional?' I went like a broken record, the white walls of the corridor now bringing me back into the actual context of my life. It suddenly all felt like a dream. Like a momentary escape from the madness.
'Nice afro!' A stranger blurted out as he walked by. A stranger? No. He was dressed as I was. He was a prisoner as well. I reached for my head but there was no hair to speak of. No crown either. I was the queen of nothing but the imaginative arena.

That's right. This was the life I wished I had. The words I wished for all my life. A world I longed for so bad I couldn't tell you where I was or how I got there.
I couldn't even tell you my name. I didn't even think it mattered anymore. I was the Afro Queen, the amazon on my head, holding this position without a single strand.

Who could ask for more than that?
Who would accept anything less?

A time without my boy was no time at all. The greatest lesson I learnt from 'love' was how quickly you can lose it all. If I could forget it, even for a moment, that is where I'd be.
Around a fire, stars in view, my little boy next to me. Yes. I can smell it even now. The scent of nature in the night. The howling of the moon and the roaring of the cold blooded breeze. My little boy snuggling next to me. The ants biting his little feet as I...

'I'm sorry, but your mother's condition is only getting worse,' the doctor told the young man biting his nails.

Standing up as one who had seen this conversation play out multiple times in his head he asked the doctor to give him some privacy.
He walked towards the window. Biting his nails once more he slowly glanced backwards, towards the lady strapped to the bed.
The medicine they had given her was so strong he could tell it was really potent in how short her breaths were. She was asleep. It seemed this was the only time she was at peace and thus these, were the moments he could actually spend time with her.
Her conscious state was too volatile for anything as mild as conversations.
He walked towards her and sat in the chair next to her bed.
As he stared, just as he did countless times before, he prayed for some glimmer of hope to shine through it all.
For her to at least, remember his name once she woke up.

He didn't believe in miracles but he did believe in her. 'He had to,' she always taught him; to always believe.
But she seemed so far this time, mourning a brother he never met, a family he never knew.
She'd never talk about it but he knew. Everytime he surprised her or did anything that excited her, she called him by his name.
He didn't know how bad it was until now. Or maybe he did. She spent more time sorting through her old things than she did with him. 'I mean, how long does it take to sort through a couple of boxes,' he thought. Apparently, years.
Perhaps, that's why his father left. Perhaps, that's why she couldn't get along with anyone else, always preferring solitude over company. He had no idea whether she was punishing herself and if she was, why she had to. All he knew is that, his mom never smiled all the way. He didn't know why but he knew she was always hurting inside. Always hurting.He didn't know enough to help.

Life can be so distracting and sometimes we can be so good at passing up for happy, for normal, that nobody ever notices. And life is such that, nobody needs to ask if they don't see the need to, and perhaps it's better that way, we often surmise.
Time tells the most intriguing tales sometimes, prompting us to learn something from them. Yet it seems ever so often, it is because of time, that we start to forget.

The actual title is Dementia. I just wanted the journey to take you there. Like many of the stories to come. This was just a hypothetical one. Granted, it's based on real life but not directly. I hope you enjoyed it