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When the photograph was taken, Erina was heavily pregnant; the day had been done up with all the warmth and pomp of spring. It hurt to stand for too long, and hurt even more to sit still- but even still, she maintained herself.
The day maintained itself as well, just outside the parlor window. Sunlight poured in through the thin, diaphanous drapes, lighting the seed pearls that decorated her left breast. A cool breeze followed suit, bringing the scent of flowers and the promise of a late night frosting to threaten the newly made buds. Floating in with the grace and will of an exile, one little piece of dandelion fluff made its way across the room before disappearing to find some crack to stubbornly grow.
An idyllic painting served as the backdrop to a spot of silent human suffering.
Masked was that sorrow, by the scene of simple human foolishness
(Speedwagon was helping the cameraman, who fumbled slightly with the bulky equipment; a humorous little ring around of “no, this way” “my apologies” “watch where you’re going!” “and this is how-”, so simple that a pair of trained apes could provide the same.)
but still the air of tragedy crept in, trying to sink her heart through her ribcage.
(Straizo stood, silent and forlorn. His presence was the dark shadow that whispered to Erina all the things that hurt the most- “I’m so sorry,” “it will be okay” “we did all we could-” “he was a good man”- three possibilities and one undeniable truth.)
Cousin Ruth- a tall, plain spinster with her mouth set in a grim line, propriety on the mind and a maid at her heels to answer beck and call- came to give Erina the babe that would be steadfastly given away again.
It was for the best, Cousin Ruth had said- it was unseemly for her to already have two babes if she had only had the chance to bed her husband once. On the same breath, her wedding dress had been condemned, because proper mourning meant mourning black and bleak, rainy days, and forever rainy moods. And how quick she had been to condemn when she herself spoke of Erina’s husband the way that an irate seamstress regards a pair of worn britches...
Perhaps any sane woman would have thought twice about wearing the bridal gown. She still wasn’t entirely sure if she was sane, of course- despite Speedwagon’s assurances to the fact. Erina felt raw, a biting emptiness that tore through her stomach with gnashing teeth. The weight of reality threatened to drag despair from that incomplete void, threatened to wet her cheeks with tears and wet her breath with hysteria. Perhaps it was sane, to feel as if one’s world was crumbling at the seams, to feel as if they would never be good enough for the remnants of those they lost.
But Erina still wore the dress because it brought the weight of Jonathan’s presence with her. The memory of his broad hands gently holding her waist; the delicacy of his lips against her hands, where the diamond ring still lay; the force of his smile, suspending moments in time because he could say, through one gesture alone, that a moment was as precious to him as it was to her.
She wore the dress because it was sacrilegious to mourn in it. She would be doing enough of that for the rest of her life- mourning, wishing dearly that Jonathan wasn’t dead in the water. Erina had a lifetime to give her husband the respect and love he deserved, even beyond the veil.
The photograph was taken. With the spring breeze, the seeds of lives that Jonathan had sown went to the winds.
~*~
Erina stayed in England and kept correspondence, of course.
Speedwagon made his way to the land of opportunity and struck liquid gold- his letters oozed the rough and tumble charm that he himself exuded, dandy and free-spirited and, most of all, warm. Stubborn, but well-meaning- a weed that, by sheer coincidence, turned out to be a rose in the brambles.
Straizo settled in Tibet with Elizabeth, able to give her a life like no other. Erina felt as if she was slighting her, of course- she asked herself every time she held the letters written in Straizo’s elegant script, asked if what Jonathan wanted was for her to become the mother that babe would never have. While other little girls learned to sew and make dandelion crowns, Elizabeth remained in the company of warriors, learning how to make metal crowns and how to fight.
In a way, Erina preferred it that way- if she were slighted, hurt, with the weight of the world tearing out her heart, Elizabeth wouldn’t have to wallow in helplessness as Erina was doomed to.
It was a selfish thought. Erina was having more and more selfish thoughts, now, pushing up like weeds. She wasn’t a good person, as Speedwagon had said- nor was she strong.
She was simply stubborn. Nothing more. And perhaps, that was all she was- nothing more and stubborn.
~*~
The night George was born, she remembered again what it was like to not feel selfish. It had been painful; she tried not to scream, but divine punishment pressed against her body. The pain of Eve, cast away from Eden for her selfishness, made way for her son to come into the world. She bore through every tear, every searing hot pulsation as he received the gift of life the way all Joestar men did- head on.
On the first night of spring that held no hint of frost, Erina held her son cradled to her bosom, little hands splayed on her open nightshirt and hair as dark as the night outside.
He had his father’s eyes.
She had her husband’s hope and cradled the love he made permanent in her arms. As stubborn as a dandelion growing inside of her, the small seed of Jonathan’s devotion grew up to be her son and the light of Erina’s life.
~*~
Light blew out too soon, in the noble lineage Joestar.
~*~
When Elizabeth came- no. When Lisa Lisa came. When Lisa Lisa came to her, it was to bring the news of another death and her son.
She was stubborn. Stubborn and selfish. Perhaps she had learned that from Erina herself- the only lesson of a mother that never was.
“That he should grow up without a mother or father is a heavy cost for your stubbornness.” I was stubborn, too, Erina wanted to say. That stubbornness was the seed that Erina had sown, and now it ran rampant, steadfast as a weed with roots stretching to infinity.
“He won’t need me.”
That was what Erina heard, underneath Lisa Lisa’s eloquent appraisal and command to care for the little boy currently swaddled in her arms. It was the stubbornness that ran in the Joestar line, bred from a warrior’s spirit to look death in the face. It was selfishness born from Erina’s line, thinking of herself and her own pain, as if to be selfish when in deep despair, was any crime.
Erina understood. She wished it didn’t have to be this way.
She flinched away from Lisa Lisa’s touch, away from that attempt at assurance- because it was a reflection of the empty gestures she had tried to use herself, all those years ago.
~*~
Joseph was a willful boy. He was steeped in the characteristic stubbornness of their family, the selfishness that she had, and a mischief besides that was characteristic only to him.
Erina was growing older. She didn’t have the time or energy to preoccupy herself with the age-old worry of whether or not she was selfish (she was, but she was starting to suspect that she was selfish only in a very human way) and whether or not she was a bad person (the jury was still out on that one). She grew, and matured further, barricading the part of herself that still swayed uncertainly with the weight of the hole that Jonathan had left.
In many ways, she had simply moved on with the times. It was a necessary sacrifice, to rein in the explosive energy that pervaded throughout Joseph’s every movement, to teach him how to better deal with that selfishness he displayed. She wouldn’t make the same mistake that she had with Lisa Lisa.
Jonathan deserved to see his descendants reared up in the right way, after all.
Erina watched from the open window, feeling the humid summer breeze waft in. In the garden, Joseph was putting that manic energy to good use, pulling up weeds as fat as his little palm. Finally, Joseph gathered as many yellow heads as he could manage, and dirtied the windowsill with mud while trying to hand her a child’s bouquet of weeds.
“They’re pretty, aren’t they Granny?” Joseph asked with a wide smile, missing both front teeth.
Erina took the handful of dandelions, making a small show of examining them,
(Making comments that she just barely remembered reading from a book just an hour before- “these were used for medicine in the Americas, you know” and “what a lovely crown they would make”. Normalcy.)
Erina smiled. “Pretty stubborn, more like. But that simply makes them all the more beautiful.”
Without that stubbornness, how’s an old weed to survive in a world as harsh as this?