TM 239: Red.
The light hits her hair in the morning and it shines brighter than the sun.
There are things he remembers, sometimes, in the dark and in the dawn. He spent so much time not remembering. Bright red hair. Bright red feathers. Red. Red, the color of fire. Flame. Lighting the room before electricity.
Now, he remembers.
Past and pasts. Future and futures. And future's past. So much to remember and try to understand.
Her hair, across his chest, shining in a tangle, brighter than the sun.
The human body cannot recall pain. Only the light of the flame, red, and gold but mostly red. A woman crying and he forgot because who would want to remember?
A woman crying. Mother. Sister. Cousin. Friend. Lover. Daughter. Wife. Tears are always falling. Never his. Sometimes his. Never his.
The man died and the woman cried and he fled and the girl fled and the girl is a woman and the woman died and he cried but he forgot because who would want to remember?
But she is just one woman and not.
Red hair, in a tangle, across his chest, the light hits it and it shines brighter than the sun.
She shines, always, brighter than anyone he has met. When she dances, when she laughs, when she sleeps, still she is shining. Her tears are his when she cries. And her hair. And her light. Red and gold but mostly red. It's not the red he fears. It's the red he loves.