The sails of memory rip open in silence
The Island isn't the only place Mike has ever been where even routine shit manages to be surprising, but it has to be close to the top of the list. What list, measuring what, he's not entirely sure; maybe just by any measure, the Island would be close to the top of most lists he can think of. In any case, when he walks outside and all the snow is gone, he's at once startled and completely unsurprised.
Another year. Another winter. And now he can feel the world waking up again.
He aches, pretty much everywhere. It's not altogether unpleasant.
So the morning is for getting his newly uncovered garden back into shape. It's looking as green as ever, but it needs weeding, and there are a few things that he thinks might do better in larger patches of earth, given room to spread out and grow, and there's leaf litter and dead material that needs clearing away. He's down on his knees with his hands caked with soil--no gloves, not ever--when a flash of color catches his eye. Not flower, not leaf. He reaches out, brushes the dirt away from it... and sits back with a heavy breath, lifting it free from the litter.
It's slightly crumpled, dirty--not just from being half buried but from older wear. Older dust. He knows what it is; he had carried it with him for a long time, though he had not taken it into the Realm with him. It had been a very hard thing to let go of. Now he holds it carefully, almost tenderly, like he's afraid it might disintegrate in his hands and flutter away on the breeze.
"I'll be damned," he says softly. Though of course, he won't.
He supposes that's the point.
[OOC: Mike has found his fourth and final item, a photo of himself and his squad taken during Operation Desert Storm. He's a little pensive but perfectly approachable. This will be his last EP before he goes at the end of next week, so if you want to tag him with anyone now is a good time. Late tags are fine.]
Another year. Another winter. And now he can feel the world waking up again.
He aches, pretty much everywhere. It's not altogether unpleasant.
So the morning is for getting his newly uncovered garden back into shape. It's looking as green as ever, but it needs weeding, and there are a few things that he thinks might do better in larger patches of earth, given room to spread out and grow, and there's leaf litter and dead material that needs clearing away. He's down on his knees with his hands caked with soil--no gloves, not ever--when a flash of color catches his eye. Not flower, not leaf. He reaches out, brushes the dirt away from it... and sits back with a heavy breath, lifting it free from the litter.
It's slightly crumpled, dirty--not just from being half buried but from older wear. Older dust. He knows what it is; he had carried it with him for a long time, though he had not taken it into the Realm with him. It had been a very hard thing to let go of. Now he holds it carefully, almost tenderly, like he's afraid it might disintegrate in his hands and flutter away on the breeze.
"I'll be damned," he says softly. Though of course, he won't.
He supposes that's the point.
[OOC: Mike has found his fourth and final item, a photo of himself and his squad taken during Operation Desert Storm. He's a little pensive but perfectly approachable. This will be his last EP before he goes at the end of next week, so if you want to tag him with anyone now is a good time. Late tags are fine.]
