loop 2: january 7th, witch hazel
“ you were, you are, and you will be….eternal light that illuminates our path. ”
rory rayne never truly got over her mother's death. she visits her an attempt to do so, to move on from one unresolved piece of her past.
January 7th. The air is cold and crisp, carrying that tinge of new year’s freshness to it that’s easy to forget once the last week of January is over.
It isn’t yet, though. Rory Rayne trudges through the snow, alone, hugging something wrapped up in a paper bag. Her hair’s a mourning black, coordinating with the rest of her clothes, although that much was unplanned. Underneath a heavy winter jacket, she wore a shirt she’d stolen from Will’s closet the day she’d come over. What a myriad of events, the first two weeks of January carried.
This was the first time she’d acknowledge any of them. She looked around, clumsily, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, and felt a pang of guilt surge through her as she acknowledged the thought. She hadn’t ever visited, but as her brother described, there it was, right underneath a growing witch hazel. The sun was barely rising over the horizon, leaving specks of sunlight to pass through, illuminating the headstone in front of her.
In loving memory of Rebecca Rayne.
June 6th, 19XX–January 7th, 20XX
Fuiste, eres, y serás luz eterna que ilumina el sendero de nuestras vidas.
With a heavy sigh, she forces herself to wipe off the snow from the ground in front of it, kneeling down, staring at the inscription in silence for some seconds, muttering the translation under her breath.
“.....you were, you are, and you will be….eternal light that illuminates our path.” A pause. She notices the hot air leaving her mouth as she speaks. So painfully alive. “....’s cheesy. Dunno why they chose that one.”
She looks back up at the headstone, at her mother’s name printed on it. Her therapist had recommended she try and face her mother’s death after years of rejecting it, but….the burden in itself felt heavy to carry. It had always been a nagging thought, sure, but...facing it here, when it was right in front of her eyes? It was completely different. It felt like finally admitting that there was no possible way she’d see her smile again, or hear her playfully nagging voice switching from Spanish to English...the way she slightly rolled her R’s as she spoke Rory’s name to tease her...all of that, gone.
“....if it were up to me, I would’ve...dunno. Not, done that.” A small, pathetic chuckle. It’s quiet enough to be drowned out by the sound of chirping birds, but...still. She wipes the underside of her eyes carelessly, nails scratching at her skin. “....I brought you something. Flowers felt weird and cheesy, so I just…”
She clumsily unwraps the paper bag, putting what looks like a stack of magazines in front of the headstone. They’re all things like DIY’s, homemade recipes...mundane, boring things Rory would not have thought twice about if she hadn’t spotted her mom reading them every time she had a day off work. She left them there, retracting her hands as if she expected...something, to happen.
The sun only rose higher, a quiet sparrow chirping nearby. Rory stared down at her cold, stiffening hands.
“......I miss you...and I’m...I’m sorry for being mad at you for such a long time. I get it now. I really do. I mean...I wish you’d stuck around a little longer, because...a lot happened. Like...Rowan’s almost done with his transition! And I began going to...you know, actual school this year...got a boyfriend…”
A light smile graces her face, as she keeps looking down. And for a moment, if she concentrates hard enough, she can almost imagine her mother sitting on the headstone, listening patiently. She doesn’t look up, though. She doesn’t want to face it just yet.
“...I think you’d like him, he’s...loud...a theater kid...he cares a lot about me....and…”
She’s trailing off now, wiping at her eyes anew, although the effort is futile. Digging into her pockets with her left hand, she rubs a tissue all over her face, carelessly. Small, heaving sobs showing only in the way her shoulders rise up and down. She takes a deep breath through her mouth, struggling to continue.
“...my friend...Miranda...you’d like her as well, she’s got...pink hair, dresses like the magazines you liked....”
The birds stop chirping. She wonders if they can sense...all this. The grieving, the crying. Do they see this as just another normal winter day?
“...dunno if you’d be proud of me, but...I’m trying my best, and I’ll...try and visit during your birthday...hopefully you can be more proud then.”
With weakened limbs, she pushes herself up, looking back at the headstone now below her.
In loving memory of Rebecca Rayne.
June 6th, 19XX–January 7th, 20XX
Fuiste, eres, y serás luz eterna que ilumina el sendero de nuestras vidas.
The quote feels less cheesy now. She rubs off the tears still freely rolling down her cheeks, and turns the other way, trudging through the quiet winter graveyard, out the gate, and into Poppy Valley once more.