light, sleeping at last

TUSCANY,
ITALY.

it is cold. autumn has settled. leaves of auburn and green fall around her, hair woven into a cascading braid down her back. the warmth of spring has departed long before, the iridescent shine of summer faint in the air. wheat fields are harvested before her very eyes, of which green and brown collide in peace. she smells it in the air: the earth, the fresh baking of bread, the sun and the wind. she smells it so very well, as she smells the mortality like a fresh wound. her skin is not of her own. it is a mirage of what was once there.

it does not bother her, however.

her slanted eyes glimpse at the sun. it is hot in its pursuit to remind people of its presence, yet failing in its ability to provide warmth. the fields of wheat are glum. her hands no longer heal their cold. she no longer breathes to them warmth. she can only imagine such things now: she tries it again and again, her hand touching the stem, her eyes wide with false hope. she knows it will not work.

she tries again, nonetheless.

she wears green. green and brown and burning reds. she bathes in the autumn leaves, inhales the smoky air of bread, weeps by the rivers of blue, cries with the tears of clouds. she sings with the birds, smiles with the sun, runs with the wind. this is her hope. this is her denial, as much as it is her home. she does not leave the field—her feet do not let her. she can not stand to enter the world. her immortal heart scorns it. she can only live here, amongst wheat, amongst grass. but not all is complete. her mind nags and reminds and cries:

but persephone, what about my persephone?

and then she stops. she stops and stands still and gasps. she does not run with the wind anymore. she does not sing with the birds. she does not smile at the sun. she does not make a sound. instead, she looks around. she sees it now, her immortal heart splayed upon the fields.

there, by the tree, persephone in her youth, dancing with the dryads. her hair was yellow then, of wheat fields and the sun. skin of bark, golden in the summer, and eyes of spheres painted amber. she wore green, she ran and played in grass, slumbered against trees—laughed in her mothers arms.

and then she changes. she grows up. adolescence amplifies her beauty. she is now perfection—hair of light auburn, kissed heavily by the sun. eyes still with her childlike innocence, dresses still green with grass. she weaves flowers into her skin, freckles upon her face. she is short, she is of the height of trees. the dryads love her, as she loves them. she looks towards the former goddess. she smiles.

and then she changes again. but this time, it feels real. the former goddess sees the same green dress, but the envious spark it once had in persephone's adulthood is gone. instead, there sleeps that childlike innocence, flowers blooming from her skin. eyes are wide with tears, face painted with freckles. her hair has grown dark—charred with hades' smoke, blackened by his immortal love. the former goddess gasps. she laughs and gasps and runs with the wind. the birds sing once more. she sings with them.

"persephone!" she yells with glee and passion and joy.

persephone stands before her, lips wobbling, eyebrows turned. she shakes, the poor dear, she shakes and stumbles and falls into her mothers arms. a bag sits besides her, black as is hell. it has been a long time since she'd felt her mother's arms. it is has been a long time since she felt anything.

the former goddess smiles. her daughter is here, in flesh and blood. mortality graces her skin with renewal. she is hers once more.

her daughter.

her pride and joy.

her beautiful, beautiful persephone.