Stagtine, 12. Become

Section 1, Chapter 9

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The herd retreated, silently. Stillness fell and the spirits that only moments ago had danced around us left as they came. Earth cleft and like a bathtub drained, gurgling diphonic songs as it swallowed everything, everyone.

The dawn sung over our shoulders, setting fire to our knife blades. And I looked at Morgan with the same smirk and tear that my mother had looked at me with all those many years ago on the fire- warmed patio and happiness and its health descended, like gentle, spring rain.

Lionel, meaning Little Lion, the gift of the field, harvested under the winter’s mist. We worked all morning and we talked and cried, remembering his life, remembering our own. We dreamed together and anticipated his rebirth, our nourishment, when his memory would flow through our veins, becoming our body.

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