For Each Ecstatic Instant (2b/10)
anonymous
January 7 2010, 01:10:04 UTC
Again, they smiled warmly at each other, until Lithuania began to feel awkwardness churn in his stomach, prickling behind his ears. Apparently, America did as well, because, he cleared his throat and looked away. Lithuania quickly went back to eating.
“Oh,” America said, “I’ve got something for you.” He leaned over and searched around near his feet. After a moment, he straightened up, holding a newspaper and small book. He proffered the newspaper. “Here’s today’s paper for you if you’re interested, and, I guess, if you don’t want to read that, then I got this book. It’s one of my people’s poetry. It’s kinda stupid, but, I, uh, I didn’t know what you’d like, so I, um…” He laughed.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Lithuania said gratefully, accepting the paper and book. “They’re very nice.” He glanced down at the headline of the paper, something about a political brouhaha of America’s. Absently, he scanned the article, actively ignoring the article to the side. It was something about the bomb, and he could see the letters U.S.S.R. printed clearly in the title.
“Well, um,” America began awkwardly, automatically filling in the silence with noise. “How are you feeling? Better?”
He nodded. “Yes. Much better. I’d forgotten how much I love staying here.”
America grinned. “The place went downhill fast after you left. Honestly, there are rooms that I haven’t even touched, because they got so messy without you.”
Lithuania laughed easily. “When I’m feeling better, I’d love to cook for you again.”
“I’d like that too,” America said sincerely. He gave Lithuania’s knee a gentle squeeze, while the other country continued to eat and idly scan the newspaper. All bad news, though Lithuania thought he preferred that, to the cheerful lies which Russia made his Newspapermen declaim daily to his beaten-down populace, who knew better, but sometimes wished to believe the lie.
But, he wasn’t with Russia anymore. He needed to stop automatically matching every good thing America gave him, with how worse things had been with Russia. . Had the large nation become so powerful a force that he could dominate every area of Lithuania’s life, even after the Union splintered?
He had to live in the present. No Russia, no insanity, no cold rooms and whips. Only sunlight, waffles, and America’s laughter. He had enough problems on his shoulders, without trying to solve those in the past, as well.
After a moment, America stood up. “Well, I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll let you finish your breakfast in peace, and maybe catch some better sleep. Would you like me to come get you for lunch?”
Lithuania nodded. He would have liked for America to stay, if only to keep him grounded in the here-and-now and out of the dark past, but the words wouldn’t seem to come. And, he chided himself, it wasn't fair of him to guilt America into staying by his bedside. The superpower probably had far better things to do than dote on him like a sick child.
Once Lithuania had finished his breakfast and the parts of the newspaper he could safely read, he curled over and tried to go back to sleep. Shamefully undeniable fear kept him firmly conscious, though.
Awake, he was safe and secure in America’s house. Asleep, he was back in Russia’s domain.
Eventually, he gave up and picked up the poetry book instead, holding the covers and letting it fall open as it would. There was one place where the spine had been especially cracked and worn. Lithuania read the small poem neatly set in the middle of the page.
For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ration To the ecstasy
For each beloved hour Sharp pittances of years- Bitter contested farthings- And Coffers heaped with Tears!
Lithuania let the book lie limply in his lap. He felt suddenly awkward and guilty, as if he had been eavesdropping on one of America’s most private conversations. It was said that the window to a nation’s soul was his poetry. Even if this poet wasn’t alive, her ominous words were on America’s mind.
“Oh,” America said, “I’ve got something for you.” He leaned over and searched around near his feet. After a moment, he straightened up, holding a newspaper and small book. He proffered the newspaper. “Here’s today’s paper for you if you’re interested, and, I guess, if you don’t want to read that, then I got this book. It’s one of my people’s poetry. It’s kinda stupid, but, I, uh, I didn’t know what you’d like, so I, um…” He laughed.
“Thank you, Alfred,” Lithuania said gratefully, accepting the paper and book. “They’re very nice.” He glanced down at the headline of the paper, something about a political brouhaha of America’s. Absently, he scanned the article, actively ignoring the article to the side. It was something about the bomb, and he could see the letters U.S.S.R. printed clearly in the title.
“Well, um,” America began awkwardly, automatically filling in the silence with noise. “How are you feeling? Better?”
He nodded. “Yes. Much better. I’d forgotten how much I love staying here.”
America grinned. “The place went downhill fast after you left. Honestly, there are rooms that I haven’t even touched, because they got so messy without you.”
Lithuania laughed easily. “When I’m feeling better, I’d love to cook for you again.”
“I’d like that too,” America said sincerely. He gave Lithuania’s knee a gentle squeeze, while the other country continued to eat and idly scan the newspaper. All bad news, though Lithuania thought he preferred that, to the cheerful lies which Russia made his Newspapermen declaim daily to his beaten-down populace, who knew better, but sometimes wished to believe the lie.
But, he wasn’t with Russia anymore. He needed to stop automatically matching every good thing America gave him, with how worse things had been with Russia. . Had the large nation become so powerful a force that he could dominate every area of Lithuania’s life, even after the Union splintered?
He had to live in the present. No Russia, no insanity, no cold rooms and whips. Only sunlight, waffles, and America’s laughter. He had enough problems on his shoulders, without trying to solve those in the past, as well.
After a moment, America stood up. “Well, I don’t want to tire you out. I’ll let you finish your breakfast in peace, and maybe catch some better sleep. Would you like me to come get you for lunch?”
Lithuania nodded. He would have liked for America to stay, if only to keep him grounded in the here-and-now and out of the dark past, but the words wouldn’t seem to come. And, he chided himself, it wasn't fair of him to guilt America into staying by his bedside. The superpower probably had far better things to do than dote on him like a sick child.
Once Lithuania had finished his breakfast and the parts of the newspaper he could safely read, he curled over and tried to go back to sleep. Shamefully undeniable fear kept him firmly conscious, though.
Awake, he was safe and secure in America’s house. Asleep, he was back in Russia’s domain.
Eventually, he gave up and picked up the poetry book instead, holding the covers and letting it fall open as it would. There was one place where the spine had been especially cracked and worn. Lithuania read the small poem neatly set in the middle of the page.
For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ration
To the ecstasy
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years-
Bitter contested farthings-
And Coffers heaped with Tears!
Lithuania let the book lie limply in his lap. He felt suddenly awkward and guilty, as if he had been eavesdropping on one of America’s most private conversations. It was said that the window to a nation’s soul was his poetry. Even if this poet wasn’t alive, her ominous words were on America’s mind.
Lithuania wished that he didn’t know that.
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