sardonyx ☆ stylist . fin

sardonyx ☆ stylist . fin Aug 28, 2016 1:08:20 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Aug 28, 2016 1:08:20 GMT -5

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s a r d o n y x ;

Gold, I was everything I was supposed to be and more.

Dusted by the cosmos like freckles on my skin; "Sardonyx." My mother says, a whisper on an infant and I was born from destiny itself, the god of time caressed my cheek and the sun attended my first husband's funeral. From the day Sardonyx Crowe left my mother's lips and kissed my forehead lightly, red staining my temple -- "Sardonyx." I held the world in the creases of my chubby little palms, "Sardonyx," and Atlas held me on his shoulders himself.

And not the tribute.

Selene was my mother, and she buried my father herself. A woman of the moon and the beckoning of the last name Crowe; "a man who cheats," she whispered in toddler cheeks, grabbing at my virgin skin, "is no man at all." The most beautiful woman, I looked at her like the moon herself and she held the brown of my hand so tight as we watched the origins of the Crowes be buried into the ground. A black coffin, feathers on the side and gold linings -- a cross on top. Selene told me that they were crosshairs, the sights in which God watches you from.

As a child I would watch the moon from our apartment patio, the cement rubbing my back as I sat down. I watched the way it swayed in the sky, like the treeline past our city and the midnight silence of my house met that of the calm breeze. The buzzing of night crickets and fireflies; I was an only child. My mother too busy with the accustoms of life to care for me as she'd like. And I understood, eight year olds shouldn't live alone, shouldn't raise themselves. But my mother, she would sit with me when she could. Selene, the most beautiful woman; braiding my hair as the television spoke like a lyrical. "Sardonyx," she would say -- crisp, like a kiss in word form

"You're more than a child,
you're special."

Selene, like the woman of the moon -- she never left me.

She gave me everything: the sun, the moon, the stars. Myself, my being. The braid in my hair and the color of my skin -- she gave me my voice.

She gave me the sky, and everything I love in my heart.

My children, my heart; my soul. The way I smile and the crinkle of my nose; the stone of my body. The strength of my bones, my sorrows and my crows.

She taught me to forgive myself.

Burrowed in her shoulder, my eyes black and blue and my mother held me, wrapped her arms around me as if she were the sky and I was the moon. I saw myself in the bees, in nature itself; the spring and the summer -- a single bee landing on a flower's feather. My body supined under a tree, the grass holding me in its warmth, in the earth's hug and I watched the sun. I watched my own death -- a bee pollinates a flower. I didn't think I would make it past winter.

"A man who hurts a woman," I cried and cried until I felt snow on the tips of my fingers. The tears frosted up and my mother held me with every bit of compassion in her body; with every bit of the two hours we spent together. She held me like the sun holds the moon, like I hold my own.

She taught me how to live past my own hatred.

My first child was mine, and mine alone. Seventeen and weak, my mother held my hand, kissed my forehead. I could've given up, I almost did; the nurse held my hand as I breathed and for a second I felt my soul quiver. My heart stop and the moon stopped -- the world waited for me to happen. For me to choose what would happen next and I couldn't. My blood chilled in my veins as the stars stopped turning; "what will you do?" They asked me, as I lay alone, bloodied and sweaty and tearfully.

I chose to win. Air came into my lungs and I blinked, and cried and heaved choked and everything my soul chose to do; I decided to live. The nurse gripped my hand, the lord gripped my life and I held it in my own -- "I want this," I told him. I whispered into the sky as I went through the heaviest hurt there is; "please, Ripred, I want to live." And I watched the moon as my body tore itself apart, as my mother kissed my forehead from across the capitol and I knew, I knew no matter what that I was loved. That I would love and be loved and I clung to the inch of life left in my body and breathed as much as I could until the doctor let out a laugh and softly told me, "Ms. Crowe?

It's a boy."

"I don't care."

And I grabbed and gripped at the nurse, at the doctor, at the good lord himself; "give me my baby," I said. And I held him in my arms, I held him as tight as possible and breathed in the scent of pollen and I could feel my mother around my shoulders as I kissed his forehead. As I stared my son in the eyes and whispered the name "Samson," into his dusted infant skin.

And I swear he was given to me by the cosmos himself.

I kissed him as hard as I could and bled my galaxy into his veins as he cried and I couldn't stop; choking and heaving and everything ugly and natural and beautiful, my eyes unable to see my own child clearly past tears but I saw him enough.

I already loved him.

Samson, the child of the sun,
I swear I'll never leave him.

Nothing but, all mine -- I never needed a husband, like the woman of the moon. I held his tiny hands and watched the dragonflies, listened to the beauty of nature and taught him to paint. Taught him everything I could while my mother was alive; she was too young to be a grandmother. He knew how to love others at the age of two, learned how to speak even before that and how to use his own voice after and made sure he knew somebody loved him.

His hand folded so easily inside of mine, for as long as I could hold him in my arms I did. When I took over as the host of my mother's talk show I held onto him, dressed him for the cameras and kept him until he was old enough to tell me he didn't want to. When I brought him to my mother's funeral, he didn't understand much, didn't understand what was wrong or why his hand fit so well inside of mine or why the woman of the moon didn't last to see the sun raise.

I held his tiny hand in mine the same year my mother passed away; bright lights and sequins, feather collars and wire crinolines -- my first year. My first tribute parade, recruited for my performance on my talk show, I was chosen at twenty three. Clenching Samson's hand a little too hard, it felt as if my mother was watching. As Selene took Samson in her arms next to me and held onto my hand and I chose to follow my soul; to cry and hold my son and pray to the gods that my mother saw me like this.

That my mother could see me, winning.

female, thirty three, stylist
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