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Warm sunlight illuminated the wooden porch of the humble ranch house. An ancient hunter sat journaling to the tune of buzzing cicadas. They took a moment of pause and admired their friend who was also enjoying the bliss of the summer evening. The remarkably old bird was perched on the pretty white railing, dozing off like a fat cat. Its feathers were frayed and frazzled sticking out like the hair of an old woman. A piece of its beak was missing. The hunter never worried, however. The spirit of that raven— the spirit of their late uncle— would never truly leave them.
The seasons passed like blinks. With each day, they grew old alongside the trees. Once rich, thick hair was now thinned. As they whittled wood they noticed the veins in their hands becoming more prominent. The skin was somehow both thin from age, yet calloused from work. Eyesight that was once sharp became blurred and strained. Now they always had to wear wiry spectacles.
But age wasn’t something that bothered them. Age didn’t matter compared to the life of worship they served. And the life of love they had. In the end, they had abandoned the hunt and ran away with their lover. The couple, along with several of their old colleagues, retired to a remote system that had never seen nor heard of the Games .
And while they couldn’t give their lover the children he wanted, the children of their friends’ filled that void. The hunter thoroughly enjoyed watching them play with only sticks and hands. The sight reminded them of what was now an ancient time. They would take little packs of the unruly crumbsnatchers hiking through the beautiful woods— to the grand waterfall, across the flowery clearing, and along the glittering stream.
Their lover had bought a new bar and built a vintage ranch house right beside the sprawling forest. He was out working on that mild summer evening, as always. They had tried to convince him that he didn’t need to work, but he was insistent on keeping busy. Idle hands are the devil’s plaything. Or was it playground? I dunno but that’s what my mom always said.
Forgetful.
Forgetful was something he was becoming. Everyday it seemed they had to remind him of something that he knew yesterday. His stammering and general aloofness were always just mild quirks. But what was once a quirk was now becoming more pronounced. They had to fret over him near constantly, or else he’d forget to take his shoes off before jumping into bed. He struggled to keep an expense ledger for his bar and they had to lean over him, bespectacled, examining the scribbly entries, checking for the frequent mistakes. His once adorably neat handwriting had started to slip into shaky scratches. They mourned the little o’s that once dotted his i’s. They mourned the neat curls that used to make up his t’s.
They mourned the way he used to write his name.
His mother was someone who was never far from their mind.
They knew all too well of her fate. The hunter held their lover as he quietly sobbed outside of her room— on the day she finally forgot. Six years later they held him again on the day she left.
But who was going to hold them? Who was going to hold them when they mourned? Because now they worried that her fate would become his.
The curse was hereditary.
He would get moody and indignant when they asked him about seeing a doctor— he totally believed that there was nothing wrong. But the hunter knew better and ultimately, they didn’t need a doctor to bring the news they were already so familiar with.
Who was going to hold them? Because he wouldn’t be able to.
And the gods couldn’t. Now, more than ever before, they questioned that divine pantheon. He didn’t deserve such a tragic end and the loyal hunter didn’t either.
A hot tear streaked down their cheek and plopped on the yellowed page. Another tear joined it and they had to sit back, rubbing their wrinkled eyes beneath the crooked glasses. Everyday they cried in silence— behind his back, in the shower, and in bed as he slept. The hunter could never let their lover see their weakness. They had to be strong for him up until that final moment— up until the day that he would wake up, unable to recognize the person who always slept beside him.
Their bird awoke with a shake of the feathers. No creature knew the hunter better. With a raspy trill, it hopped across the railing and settled down on the porch table. The bird always provided comfort, but couldn’t do much more than croak in understanding and nuzzle their hand.
Who was going to hold them?
Their friends? They could never understand the deep love the hunter had for their trickster. They could never understand the impending loss that would absolutely destroy them— slowly, but suddenly.
Slowly, but suddenly.
The hunter returned to the page. They had taken a hike with the young ones earlier and picked flowers from the wilderness. They dried them in the sun and pasted them throughout the well-worn journal. Their favorites, tiny and blue, were pasted beside the entry from yesterday. A short caption, written in elegant penmanship, sat next to those immortal flowers.
Myosotis Sylvatica: The ‘woodland forget-me-not’.