Chapter Text
I’ve never met Her. Never-ever. Not even once. Which is honestly really funny. Because with all the beats and pieces about Her I’ve managed to catalogue during the years of my life (and no one can argue that now I’m big enough to talk about my life experience), I think I know Her better than anyone I ever met or heard of. And I’m pretty confident I’ve met and heard of more people than any other average person of my age.
There’re dozens of things I know about Her. Hundreds. Thousands. The tiniest shards of colourful glass, all chaotic and haphazard, make absolutely no sense to anybody else. But you see, I am very good at this, much-much better than anybody else – collecting puzzles, piece by piece, - patiently and precisely. I am a very, very patient and diligent person. Everybody knows it. Therefore, all those shards and shreds are a kaleidoscope in my hands. Rotate its cell once – and all chaos and mayhem transform into unique, exquisite, symmetrical pattern. Rotate again – another one. And another. And another. Ever-changing. Never repeating. A work of art made from broken pieces. The highest form of ultimate perfection.
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She was so many things. So many…
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She was beautiful
…
“Soooooo fucking beautiful,” mama’s eyes dart to the framed picture on my bedside table. It’s barely a whisper, exhaled like a gentle sigh but I hear it clearly (or just read her lips, you know, I can do that) and a whole 1.5 seconds pass before her absentminded smile fades in recognition that she’s just sworn in front of me. You see, swearing is a “no-no” in our house and I chuckle at the mortified expression on her face. Another 1.5 seconds and the corners of her lips widen into a grin. “So beautiful,” she reiterates and I feel warmth spreading inside my chest.
We don’t have many pictures of Her. Don’t ask me why. Mama says it’s because She didn’t like to be photographed, but it totally doesn’t fit into anything I know about Her, so I have a feeling that’s not quite true. Anyways, we don’t have many pictures of Her. But those we have are enough for me to believe that She was the most beautiful person in the whole universe. I haven’t seen anyone that beautiful in my life. One may argue saying I haven’t lived that long yet, but mama says exactly the same thing and she says she is very old. So, she can easily be a reliable witness in my case.
I’ve researched each and every picture of Her thoroughly and meticulously. Every facial expression, every small detail, every tiniest mole on Her face. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can imagine how the silk of Her hair would feel under my fingertips if I tangled them deep into the honey-blond locks. How Her eyes would radiate with the myriads of colours under the bright morning sun of my room – brown morphing into green, into ochre, into yellow, and finally into gold when close to the pupils. How Her lovely thick eyebrows would quirk in surprise if I told Her something new and wondrous I read in one of the books from mama’s huge library. How Her bottom lip would pout at another disastrous omelette mama cooked me (us!) for breakfast. And how loudly and sonorously She would be laughing at my jokes, each and every time, all white sharp teeth and pretty wrinkles around Her eyes (mama says She used to laugh just like my grandpa, and even though my grandpa literally “barks” most of his laughs and I can hardly imagine a girl producing sounds like that, I’m more than sure I would use every opportunity to make Her laugh).
Mama is beautiful too. I love all the chocolate shades her irises can take with her different moods. I love how deep in her chest her voice rattles when she laughs. I absolutely love her dark curls – I was so obsessed with them as a baby, always tugging and tugging endlessly, she had to cut it shoulder-length… Mama is beautiful too. But that’s not the same, you know?
“Do I look like Her?” I already know the answer, I really do, but my heart thunders against my ribcage anyways and my eyes are glued to my mom’s face in anticipation. I think I even hold my breath at some point. There’s this almost imperceptible expression on her face I never can quite understand, for it comes and goes as if a shadow of the bird flying in the sky-high above us. I feel like there’s so much under this shadow, but mama always, always schools it into a warm smile before I get any chance to decipher it (and yes, I’m still trying to master this skill, so what?). She wraps the blanket tighter around my shoulders, her fingers running through my honey-blonde hair, moving to trace the line of my eyebrows, freckles on my cheeks, my cheekbone and chin. Then her index finger stops and taps on the tip of my nose.
“You do. You know you do.”
I let myself exhale finally.
“Does that mean I am beautiful, too?”
Her eyes go wide in amusement and then she laughs out loud as if it’s the funniest thing she ever heard from me. I frown, pout my bottom lip and try to wriggle away from her because duh, that’s rude, mama. But my comforter sits tight around me as if I am a wrapped burrito and the next thing I know she presses the side of her face to my chest right above my heart, her hair (always so wild, but I love it even more for that) tickling my nose. She smells like vanilla lemon meringue pie we baked earlier in the afternoon and I melt under her weight, so anchoring and soft simultaneously.
“You are. You are the most beautiful boy in the world, Will.”
There’s more warmth in my chest. It’s like honey. Or liquid glass. It’s so much warmth. It’s almost too much.
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